


The Very Thought of You

by teluete, WrathoftheStag (Mwuahna)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Falling In Love, Fluff, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Happy Ending, Jack still majored in history, M/M, Magical Realism, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Mythology - Freeform, Poetry, Travel, and only casually plays hockey, bad bob is a famous author, jack has writers block, jack is a hockey fan, johnson makes a cameo, lardo's an artist, novelist!jack, romantic fantasy, shitty is jack's agent, they live in new york, zimbits au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-04-24 17:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14359743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teluete/pseuds/teluete, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mwuahna/pseuds/WrathoftheStag
Summary: Novelist Jack Zimmermann has the worst case of writer’s block as the entire city of New York waits for his follow-up book. Will anything help?  Enter Eric Bittle, the guy who moves in upstairs and changes his life in more ways than one.A collaboration by Teluete and WrathoftheStag.





	1. Atelophobia

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to [Stultiloquentia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stultiloquentia) for being a terrific beta and whipping my dangling participles, sentence fragments and other grammatical nonsense into submission (you’re amazing.) Hugs and love to [Devereauxs_Disease](https://archiveofourown.org/users/devereauxs_disease) for giving it a read through and holding my hand, as usual.
> 
> And of course, three cheers to [Teluete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teluete) for her gorgeous, gorgeous artwork. Gab, you are always such an inspiration! <3

"Happy is the man whom the Muses love: sweet speech flows from his mouth.” - Hesiod

**+++**

_The interior of the tank smelled of sulfur, sweat, and fear. The men inside were momentarily stunned as they sat up and looked around, frantically counting one another. Counting and counting still, wondering whose family would get the next telegram from the war department._

_At this point, they all had doubts they’d reach the Ardennes. Sergeant Gagnon raised his hand, drawing the attention of the men who watched him wide-eyed. He opened his mouth and said..._

“Well, what did he say?” Jack yelled as he sat and looked at the blinking cursor on his laptop. “Shit,” he muttered and ran his hands through his hair.

Laurent la Glace’s new book was anxiously awaited by many people, namely his editor, his agent, his publisher, his parents, his fans, his mail carrier… And all Jack Zimmermann had to show for it was a cursor that had relished in mocking him for weeks.

Jack’s first book, written under the la Glace _nom de plume_ had been an instant hit and a _New York Times_ best seller. Jack had been unprepared for the acclaim _We Regret to Inform You_ had received. “A haunting account of bravery, friendship, and endurance during WWII…” the Washington Post had called it, for crying out loud. And now, there he sat at his desk, terribly, deeply and relentlessly blocked.

He looked at his coffee cup, and contemplated finishing off its long-cold dregs. The hockey game playing in the background was in intermission. His phone beeped.

“Oh, come on,” Jack exclaimed and glanced at the clock on his study wall. Jack’s cat, Glorieux, stared at him from the floor and languidly licked her paw.

Whoever was texting didn’t know him very well, because everyone who knew Jack knew he was not to be disturbed between the hours of 9:00 a.m. and 1:00 p.m. This was his morning writing time. 

His schedule was law, his routine paramount. He woke every morning at 7:00 a.m. He got up, ran five miles, hit the gym, drank a protein smoothie and was back by 8:50 a.m. where he would eat six chicken sausages and drink obscene amounts of coffee while he wrote until 1:00. So, Jack ignored the text from someone he obviously didn’t know, and got up to refill his cup.

Then his phone rang.

Jack stomped over to this phone and grimaced at it. It was from his agent.

“Shitty, why are you calling me right now?”

“Well, why are you answering? And fucking hello and good morning to you, too, Jackabelle.”

“Hello, Shitty. But really, why are you calling me right now? You know it’s my—”

“Oh, am I interrupting your staring-mindlessly-into-your-screen time?” 

“Shut up, Shits,” Jack said with a small laugh in spite of himself.

“Brah, I know you’re in deep with this writer’s block so how about we break up your holy routine and go out for some brunch?”

“Brunch?”

Shitty laughed. “Yeah, you know? Brunch? Some bennies, some hash browns, some mimosas, some coffee that’s not fuck hours old. Come on, Lards and I will meet you in sixty.”

“I can’t…”

Lardo’s voice cut in “Zimmermann, you can and you will, okay? Stop this nonsense and let’s get some food in you. Then maybe you’ll get some inspiration. Meet us at Troy’s in an hour. I’ll kick your ass if you’re a no-show.”

The line went dead before Jack could protest.

Jack stared at his phone and knew that if he didn’t show up, Shitty and Lardo would come to his place uninvited and would never leave. He loved Lardo and Shitty with all his heart and had since their Samwell days, but Jesus, he did not need them coming in and spending all day prodding him about this new book.

Jack walked over to the kitchen, rinsed out his Grammar Police mug ( _To Correct and Serve_ ) that his dad had given him years ago, and grabbed his wallet and keys from the hallway table. He plopped on his Samwell baseball cap and made his way toward the subway.

**+**

“There he is! The man of the hour,” Shitty bellowed as Jack approached their table. 

Lardo got up and leaned into Jack’s hug as he kissed the top of her head.

“We went ahead and ordered you a mimosa, Jack,” Lardo said as she sat down again and curled up close to Shitty.

“Uh, thanks,” Jack said and then frowned. “I’m still working though, so I shouldn’t drink.” But he reached for the flute and took a sip.

“Are you?” Shitty asked in a teasing tone. “Are you _really_ , though?”

Jack replied by discreetly flipping Shitty off as he took a long swig. Shitty threw his head back and laughed heartily. Then he waved his hands back and forth and shook his head.

“But enough about that. No book talk. Lards and I agreed: we’re just here to pamper you with eggs, cheap brut and OJ. Okay?”

“Fine, no book talk for the next sixty minutes,” Jack said as he looked at his watch and reached for a menu, although everyone at the table already knew what Jack was going to order. 

The three had been going to Troy’s for brunch ever since they'd moved to New York ten years ago, and in all that time Jack’s order had never changed. 

Their waitress came up ready to take everyone’s order.

“I see the brunch bunch is complete. What are you having, SB?” Sibyl asked.

“Sibs, my dear, I think I’m having the chorizo benedict, a side of pancakes, and some coffee.”

She nodded and looked at Lardo. 

“The coconut french toast with extra crispy bacon, and a latte.”

“Got it.”

Jack jumped in, “And I’ll have—”

“The broccoli and cheese omelet, four chicken sausage links, a glass of water with no ice, and coffee, black,” everyone else replied in unison.

Jack blushed. “What’s wrong with knowing what I want?”

Sibyl shook her head. “Nothing at all, Jack. My grandson orders the same meal every time we go out, and it makes him happy. Don’t mind us.”

Shitty smiled and said, “Ooh, and Sibs, can we please get another round?”

“You got it,” she replied with a wink and walked away.

“I told you, I have to work later, Shits. I can’t drink a lot. My agent is a real ballbuster and if I don’t get going on this manuscript, there will be hell to pay.”

Lardo smiled and said, “If your agent is giving you any real trouble, just tell me and I’ll slap him into submission.”

“Two against one isn’t fair, you know,” Shitty replied with a pout. “Jack, in all seriousness, if you need more time, just tell me. I’ll talk to the publishers. That’s what I’m here for, brah.”

Having Shitty Knight (Or SB Knight as he was known in the business) as your literary agent was filled with ups and downs. Jack knew Shitty would always have his back. He’d seen Shitty go against publishing houses and fight tooth and nail. 

Shitty had come into his job quite unexpectedly. During his second year of Harvard Law, he'd realized that being a lawyer wasn’t what he wanted to do with his life. Against his grandparents’ wishes, he'd dropped out of law school and instead found himself answering an inquiry from a friend of a friend asking if they knew anyone who “loved to read, loved to fight, and could stand their ground.” Fast forward ten years and Shitty’s outgoing personality, his breadth of knowledge, his intelligence, loyalty, and background in law made him a top-notch literary agent.

And when Jack’s first novel came out, Shitty was his greatest advocate. Still, having Shitty as your greatest advocate also meant you could potentially piss off several of the more conservative publishers. Jack really didn’t care though. Again, he knew that Shitty would always have his back.

“I’m also here to take you out and get you brunch-schwasted,” Shitty added.

“Cheers to that,” Lardo said and raised her glass. “You could use a little break in your routine.”

Sibyl came back with coffee, water, and second round of mimosas. “Here you go, kids.” 

“Sibs, give Jack his mimosa first. He needs to unwind.”

“Look, papa already tells me all the time how ‘tightly wound’ I am, or whatever, but there’s nothing wrong with following a carefully planned regimen,” Jack protested as he reached for his coffee. 

“Jack, you know we love you. We just worry about you stressing out, and want you to be happy,” Lardo said.

“Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad,” Jack replied. 

“And we don’t want to see you crash and burn, that’s all we’re saying,” Lardo added.

“Atelophobia,” Shitty said as Lardo nodded in agreement.

“Atelo-what now?” 

“Atelophobia. It’s the fear of not being good enough. We think that’s what you may suffer from, Jacko,” Shitty said.

“ _Crisse_ ,” said Jack. He rolled his eyes and took another swig of his drink. “You know, I liked you both much better when you didn’t use ‘we’ speak and told each other to fuck off more.” 

“Shit, dude, I tell this one to fuck off at least three times a day,” Lardo said as she playfully punched Shitty on the shoulder.

“It’s true,” Shitty agreed. 

“And, you know you love us no matter what,” Lardo added with a smirk, and blew a straw wrapper at Jack.

Jack nodded and smiled because he knew it was true. 

The three had met during their time with the Samwell men’s hockey team. Jack, a hockey fanatic his entire life, enrolled at Samwell because it was his mother’s alma mater and had a reputable history department, but also because of the team. 

He loved hockey and had played for fun his entire life, from mini mites all the way through college. (In the Zimmermann household, you bled hockey during hockey season and if you didn’t root for the Canadiens, you could get the fuck out, thank you very much.) Jack and Shitty were both forwards, and they'd instantly clicked. When Lardo signed on as the team manager in their sophomore year, their duo became a trio.

And ever since then, Shitty and Lardo had been a second family to Jack. He really did love them and wouldn’t know how to live without them.

After brunch, Jack, Lardo and Shitty walked to a nearby bookstore to browse the latest releases. Shitty beamed when he pointed at the newest Stephen King novel. Lardo had designed its cover. Jack smiled, happy for his friend’s success. 

Lardo had finally found her creative niche art directing and designing book covers. Fiction, non-fiction, historical, poetry, biography—she did them all, and was in high demand. She had worked on the cover of Jack’s novel.

“Just, whenever you have a more fleshed outline, let me know and I can start thinking of cover designs,” she said to Jack as she admired her work on another book in the store.

“You’ll be the first to know, believe me,” Jack replied. He stopped when he came upon a stack of _We Regret to Inform You_. He picked up a copy and studied it. “Can you believe people still want to buy this junk?” 

“Hey, I won’t be having any of that, Jacko. The book resonated with a lot of people, and it’s good. Soooo fucking good, brah.”

“Also, dude, that’s my work there, too. Don’t be calling my junk junk, Zimmermann,” Lardo said. Jack dropped the book and gave her a half shove, half hug.

**+++**

Jack had barely walked through the door when his phone rang. His watch read 1:05 p.m.

“Hi, Papa,” Jack answered without even looking to see who it was.

“There he is!” Bob replied.

“Well, yeah, you called me,” Jack said as he chucked his keys into the catch-all bowl on the hallway table.

“How did your day go?”

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew his father loved him, was proud of him, but sometimes Jack wished he would just lay off.

Jack’s entire life had been lived in his father’s shadow—or at least that’s how Jack saw it. Bob Zimmermann was not only a Hugo Award-winning author, but a goddamned Pulitzer winner. Jack was proud of his father, so proud, but the second Jack put pen to hand and had a knack for storytelling, Bob was on his son to write more, tell more, be better.

“Are you still blocked?” his father asked.

“You make it sound as though I have some sort of intestinal condition,” Jack said as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“Well?”

“No… yes…. I guess,” Jack replied and plopped himself onto his couch. He kicked off his gym shoes and let his head fall back on the seatback. “I got about a thousand words in.”

“A thousand words? That’s all? Were you writing all morning?”

“I went out for brunch with Shitty and Lardo.”

“Oh, that’s actually great, son. A break in your routine might help you out,” Bob enthused. 

“It didn’t. All it did was push me back, I should have just stayed home.”

“Son, it’ll come when it comes. You just have to call your muse down to give you a kick in the pants. You’ll see. Just call to her.”

“Euh… sure, Papa, I'll get right on that. How’s Maman?” 

“Fine, she’s fine. She just finished editing a poetry manuscript she’s thrilled with. She’s in love with this poet’s work.”

“Oh, that's great. Can’t wait to read it,” Jack added without much enthusiasm.

“You know, you can always go out to the chalet if you really want some solitude while you’re working, Jack.”

“I know,” Jack said, smooshing the throw pillow next to him with a tight fist. “I just feel better working in my place, surrounded by my things…”

“You can create a new routine there, son, overlooking the lake,” Bob said. “I know you like things just so, but it would be good for you to branch outside of your comfort zone.”

“Papa, I should go,” Jack said quietly. “I should try to work for a couple hours.”

“All right, all right. Just, try to change up your routine a bit, Jack. It might help. And don’t forget your muse.”

“Thanks, Papa. Talk to you soon.”

That night, Jack tossed and turned in his bed. The rest of the day had been fruitless despite the hours he'd spent staring at his laptop. He sat up in bed, and huffed. 

“Why is it so difficult for me this time, Glo?”

Glorieux meowed from the foot of Jack’s bed, but offered no solid advice. Jack reached out and she ambled toward him. He scratched the back of her ear, and was momentarily comforted by her purrs.

The light of the moon cast a soft glow against Glo’s white fur and glinted off her red and blue sparkly collar.

“ _Mon bébé_ ,” Jack said gently as he smiled at his cat. “Maybe Papa’s right, eh? I should call my muse?”

Jack chuckled and then looked toward the window. The full moon shone brightly and almost seemed to pulsate. Jack contemplated it, and felt compelled to raise the window.

He stuck his torso out. The busy New York nightlife teemed below.

“Okay, moon. So, help a guy out, eh? Send me a muse or whatever?” 

Jack closed his eyes and could practically feel the moonlight wash over him. He inhaled deeply and whispered, “Please?”

Glorieux jumped up next to Jack on the windowsill. 

“Whoa. Careful, girl.” Jack scooped up his cat, and walked back toward his bed.

“Muse...” he mumbled to himself, climbed in, shut off his lamp and began to drift off. “That was stupid.”


	2. The Guy Upstairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After John Johnson moves out, Jack's new upstairs neighbor proves to be less than ideal. When the guy upstairs throws a housewarming party, Jack decides to attend and maybe ask him to keep the noise down?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is completely written and a new chapter will be posted every Monday and Thursday.

The relative quiet in Jack’s pre-war apartment building was soon to come to an end. Word had spread throughout the building that the apartment directly above his, which had been vacant for a month, had a new tenant.

The last tenant, the occasionally weird John Johnson, shared an easy camaraderie with Jack. They’d wave hello while picking up their mail, they’d nod to each other when they passed in the lobby. Jack would occasionally stop and listen to Johnson’s ramblings that Jack never fully understood.

The last thing Johnson said to Jack before packing up his final box in the U-Haul parked in front of the building was, “My time has come, Zimmermann. Me and my abs are hitting the Appalachian Trail. Plus, I gotta make room for you-know-who.”

Jack nodded, not really getting who Johnson was talking about but wanting to humor him nonetheless.

“Bro, you gotta remember that you’re gonna have good days writing, and bad days. On the good days, the heavens are gonna love you, and on the bad days…well, they’ll still love you, but like, you’re the one who’s gonna feel frustrated and it’s gonna totally suck.”

“Uh, thanks?” Jack nodded, oddly grateful for Johnson’s supposed pep talk.

“Anyhoo, bro. I’m outta here.”

Jack shook Johnson’s hand and watched Johnson get into the truck. He put the truck in drive, rolled down his window and leaned out, “Oh, and Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s okay to go over your head. Remember, happy is the man whom the Muses love, bro. Sweet speech flows from his mouth and all that shit.”

Jack knit his brow and waved once more as Johnson drove down the block.

So now, Jack wondered who would live in the apartment over his head. He just hoped they would be quiet. 

**+++**

A knock on the door woke Jack up the following morning. Glo’s nails clicked across the hardwood floor as she ran toward the hallway.

Jack yawned and looked at his clock. 6:58 a.m. He grabbed a t-shirt from his drawer and yanked his sweatpants up.

“Coming,” Jack called out. He looked through the peephole and saw Lardo on the other side. She was carrying two cups of coffee.

“Hurry, I have coffee and I have to pee.”

Jack barely had the door opened when she ran past him. She left the coffee and her tote bag on the kitchen island and Jack heard the bathroom door slam.

“Everything all right?” he asked sleepily as he took one of the coffees and took a long, slow sip.

“Yeah, just that the damned 4 train seemed extra slow today, god,” Lardo yelled from the other side of the door.

“But you still stopped for coffee?” Jack asked.

“I’ve got priorities, Jack.”

Jack smirked and heard the toilet flush, and Lardo exited the bathroom.

“Ah! Much better,” she sighed. They gingerly fist bumped each other and she took the other coffee.

“So, what are you doing here?” Jack asked.

Lardo reached into her tote bag and pulled out two sandwiches. “Here, a couple morning _medianoche_ sandwiches from that bodega by my place. Breakfast is served.” 

Jack walked over to his cupboard and handed Lardo a plate, sat down and unwrapped his sandwich. “So?”

Lardo took a giant bite and said with her mouth full, “Can’t an old friend just pop in and say hello?”

“We saw each other two days ago,” Jack said in between chews.

“I actually have an appointment with a client not far from here at 8:30, so I came by to check and see how you were doing. Shitty and I didn’t mean to rag on you during brunch, and we felt like assholes afterward. I’m just seeing if you’re okay.”

“I am. Thanks for checking though. I got a chapter done. Of course, I had to practically yank it out of my ass but it’s done.”

“Nice visual, dude,” Lardo said with a smirk.

“Thanks for breakfast, by the way,” Jack said as he raised his sandwich in a mock toast.

Lardo gave him a thumbs up and took a big swig of her coffee. “Oh! Did you meet your new neighbor? He was bringing in boxes just as I came in. He let me in. Guy’s a morning person, apparently. Who moves in at the asscrack of dawn?” 

Jack shook his head. “I didn’t know someone was moving in already. Is it just one guy?”

“I think so. He seemed really nice. Didn’t get his name but I liked his face. Cute and approachable.”

“I just hope he’s quiet and quiet,” Jack said, “that’s all I care about.”

“Way to bust out the welcome wagon, Jack.”

A loud thud came from upstairs. Lardo and Jack looked toward the ceiling.Two more thuds followed.

“Maybe he dropped something?” Lardo said.

Jack continued to stare when suddenly his kitchen pendant lamp began to vibrate as loud, thumping base-y music began to bleed through the ceiling.

“It’s not even eight, yet,” Jack said, wide-eyed. “ _Ostie de câlisse_ ”

Lardo quickly turned her attention back to her sandwich while Jack scowled.

And so it went, the days passed. Jack had yet to meet his new neighbor, but he could hear him. All the time. Whoever that person was, all Jack knew was that he was _loud_. He walked as though he had bricks strapped to his feet, and he sang ALL. THE. TIME. 

Other times, he played the piano. Jack didn’t mind that so much. During his childhood, his mother had played classical music often, and Jack had a particular fondness for the Goldberg Variations. Still, on principle, he was annoyed.

And when he wasn’t singing or dancing with his brick shoes, the guy upstairs baked constantly. The scent of pie, or whatever, wafted downstairs and made Jack’s stomach growl. It was very distracting, and with all the dancing, laughing, and singing, Jack was so annoyed, all he wanted to do was wring that guy’s neck. 

Later that week, as Jack retrieved his mail, he noticed a bright lilac flyer taped above the mailboxes. It was cut out to look like an old-timey scroll, and it curled inward on the edges.

__

Hear ye! Hear ye!  
Party in 15B this Saturday.  
I’d love to meet my new neighbors  
and y’all are invited.  
See you at 7:00 p.m.  
xoxo

“That little so and so,” Jack muttered as he pulled down the flyer.

He began to storm off toward the stairs when he noticed a book on the lobby floor. It was poetry by Baudelaire. Jack picked it up and opened it to see if it had a name inside. The title page had the initials ERB written in the corner. 

As Jack flipped the pages, he noticed they were dog-eared and heavily annotated. He felt sorry for whoever had misplaced the book, as it was clearly well-loved. Rather than leave it on the floor, he took it upstairs with him so he could ask around later if anyone had lost it.

**+**

“Can’t you say something?” Jack asked as he made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder.

“Say something? Jack, I’m your agent, not your hired gun. What, you want me to come and rough him up?” Shitty asked. “I’m a lover not a fighter, Jack.”

“It’s just constant, Shits,” Jack sighed.

“Here’s a novel idea. Why don’t _you_ go up and say something? Just knock on his door and ask him to keep it down. Or hell, go old school and bang the ceiling with a broom.”

Jack licked his thumb and put his knife down. “You know I don’t like confrontation.”

“Yeah, you’d much rather be a whiny whinster and complain to us,” Shitty shot back.

“And then, he has the nerve to throw a party this Saturday to meet his neighbors.”

“That absolute fucker!” Shitty yelled and laughed. “How dare he try to be social and do something nice for everyone. The fucking nerve.”

“I guess I could call the landlord, but I don’t want to get him in trouble.”

“Why don’t you just go to the party and talk to him there. A nice, casual non-confrontational setting and you can just drop an easy, ‘By the by, can you please keep it down?’”

“To that guy’s party? No way!”

“Maybe Lards and I will go?” Shitty said in that tone Jack knew was partially teasing but partially serious.

“Please don’t,” Jack begged. “And, there he goes. Today’s concert has officially begun. I gotta go, Shits. Maybe I should order noise canceling headphones?”

“Improvise, adapt, overcome—or some shit like that?”

“Something like that. Talk to you later,” Jack said.

“Toodles!”

Jack took an angry bite of his PBJ as his kitchen pendant began to dance while the guy upstairs sang about paying bills. He had a good voice, Jack would give him that, but he didn’t want to hear that good voice first thing in the morning, afternoon or evening. Jack swallowed his mouthful… most of it stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Half an hour later, Jack heard a soft knock on his door. He got up and looked through the peephole, but saw no one. He opened his door and found a small white paper bag on the floor.

Inside was a tiny pie. It appeared to be apple. Along with the pie was a tiny note written in a fancy calligraphy. _I hope you can make it Saturday! 15B_

The mini pie smelled absolutely heavenly, like clove and cinnamon and maple.

He took it out of the disposable tin and bit into it. The noise Jack made surprised even himself as he covered his mouth and felt his cheeks burn.

“ _Tabarnak de câlisse_ ,” he muttered, mouth still full of pie. He chewed and his eyes fluttered shut. “What the fuck’s in this?”

Jack ate the rest of the pie in one quick bite, then looked at the note as he swallowed.

_I hope you can make it Saturday! 15B_

Jack figured he should make an appearance, just to be polite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a world of thanks to [Stultiloquentia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stultiloquentia) for being a terrific beta.


	3. Stupefied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack finally meets the his upstairs neighbor. How will things go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Thursday, another chapter. Thanks for all of your kind comments! I hope you're having fun with this one. Hey, they finally meet! What's gonna happen?

"I think dancing is one of the best things anyone can do for themselves. And it doesn't cost anything." - Frankie Knuckles

**+++**

The guy upstairs spent the whole morning of the party moving furniture around. Each push emitted a scrape across the floor that resonated clear through Jack’s ceiling. All Jack could do was sigh as he plugged away at his latest chapter.

_Violet had sent the telegraph to Spenser’s family. While it remained curt and up to the War Department’s standards, what she really wanted was to tell his mother that she’d never met anyone with as much integrity as Gerald P. Spenser. She’d never find another human being with so much compassion, so much...._

“So much what? Damn it.” Jack looked over at Glo who sat on the study floor and soaked in the morning sunlight.

“What do you think, Glo? I already used integrity and compassion. So much respect for human life?” 

Glorieux chewed on her nails.

Jack shook his head. “No, that won’t work. This is so frustrating, and it isn’t a joke. I need to get with the program. How about—”

Another scrape and a loud thud interrupted Jack’s thoughts.

“Jesus Christ Superstar, can you just let me write‽” Jack shouted toward the ceiling. Jack knew he was being unreasonable. He knew his writer’s block had nothing to do with the guy upstairs, but Jack was upset and frustrated and that guy was just the easiest target.

He made up his mind that he would definitely go upstairs that night to talk to him, or at least see what his deal was. There wouldn’t be many people, because who’d go to some new guy’s party? In all likelihood he’d end up being a total jerk that Jack would just have to put up with. But maybe he'd be reasonable. Jack figured he’d find out either way.

He sent Shitty a text. _I’ve had enough and I’m going to the party to sort this out._

Shitty responded, _Holy shit!!! Coming from a Canadian, them's fightin’ words._

Jack chuckled and pantomimed a punch to the ceiling.

**+++**

That night, Jack stomped up stairs and found himself in front 15B. Music and laughter poured out from behind the door, on which a beautiful calligraphed sign read _Come In!_. Jack pushed it open and was instantly surprised by how many people were at the party despite the early hour. 

It was only 8:00, and already people from the apartment building filled the rooms: some he knew and had occasionally spoken to, others he had only seen in passing. Each person had a drink in hand, or some sort of treat to nibble on. Some were in the hallway making out, while others danced in the kitchen. The music was loud and pulsating, but didn’t overpower the scene.

As he made his way to the living room, he wondered which of the guys here was their host. Who was ol’ brick shoes himself? He stopped when he noticed the large crowd formed around the center of the living room.

“Eric! That can’t be true!” he heard a woman shout with glee.

“It’s absolutely true,” a honeyed voice with a soft Southern drawl called back.

Jack stilled as he saw a smartly dressed blond man standing on the coffee table. Jack instantly noticed two things: he was undoubtedly the most self-assured person he’d ever seen, and, with his deep brown eyes and brilliant smile, he was also one of the most attractive.

“And that’s how I found myself in Cairo at midnight, without a phone, and a man named Zahi as my guide!” he yelled joyfully, and raised his glass to toast his audience.

Jack looked around at everyone’s reactions; they all cheered and applauded, and Jack was enchanted. The man turned and momentarily locked eyes with Jack. He threw Jack a smile. Was this the guy upstairs? Jack couldn’t move until the man turned his attention back to the adoring crowd. 

“Who needs more wine?” He called out and jumped off the coffee table. And, in an instant, he disappeared, swallowed by the sea of bodies.

Jack explored around the apartment and took it all in. He was amazed at how put-together it was after only one week. The walls were painted a lush emerald green and filled with artwork, and vases of hyacinths sat throughout the apartment. And books. Eric had hundreds of books, mostly poetry and history. Many of them Jack had never heard of, and several were first editions. He hated to admit that he was impressed.

Jack took a savory something from one of the platters placed around the apartment. It looked like a tiny tart and had prosciutto and fig, maybe? It was delicious. He immediately popped two more in his mouth, and made his way through the thick crowd. He took a glass of sparkling water from another platter, when he spied Eric, who sat at his piano and played softly. It sounded like Stravinsky, Jack noted. Eric was chatting with the woman in apartment 4C who had a very full glass of wine in one hand.

“What do you think I should do, Eric?” 4C asked.

“Honey, ever since I told my friend to dump her loser boyfriend, Donnie, I tend to stay out of people’s love lives. I said to her, ‘Di, you’re a goddess! Dump that jerk!’ And lemme just say, it did not go over well. Di didn’t like being told no,” Eric said as he held his hand to his chest.

“But I love him,” 4C slurred.

“Do what your heart tells you, sugar. That’s all I can offer,” Eric replied, then rescued the lady's wine glass and took a sip.

Jack smiled as he listened in from around the corner.

“Here. Drink this,” Shitty said as he appeared in front of a very startled Jack. “Maybe then you’ll get the courage to talk to that fucking cutie instead of just dropping mother fucking eaves.”

“I wasn’t eavesdropping, Shits,” Jack said and warily took the drink.

“Sure, Jan, and I love being fully clothed.” Shitty winked and threw back the shot in his other hand.

“What are you doing here?” Jack asked.

“Lardo and I crashed the party. We wanted to meet this rabble rouser and be witness to any shenanigans you might try to pull here tonight.”

“Jesus, really?”

“Yes, really. So did you meet Eric?”

Jack perked up. “Eric? Is he… um, is he the guy who lives here?”

“Fucking A, he is. And let me tell you, he’s a hoot.”

Lardo sidled up beside them, an enormous martini in hand, and said, “Look what the cat finally dragged in. Glad you came up, Jack.”

Jack leaned in to give Lardo a peck on the cheek. “What time did you two get here, anyway?”

“Right at 7:00. We were punctual for once,” Lardo said. “And let me tell you, this dude is ’swawesome.”

“You talked to him?” Jack asked and took a sip of whatever Shitty had handed him. It was amazing, of course.

“Yeah, and he’s funny, smart, has a perky little booty that won’t quit. I’m beginning to think it was a damn good idea you came up here to confront him, Jack,” Lardo said as Shitty made air quotes at the word “confront.”

“Look, I just came up to reason with him. I need to finish this damn book, and he’s not helping the cause,” Jack said and took another sip. “God, what is this? This is a good drink.”

“Everything here has been fucking ambrosia,” Shitty agreed, smacking his lips.

“So what did you say to him?”

“We told him the truth. That we didn’t live here, but our friend in 14B invited us and we hoped he didn’t mind,” Shitty said.

“You didn’t have to drag my name into it,” Jack said as his cheeks pinked.

“Don’t worry about it, dude. He said, ‘Any friend of Jack’s is a friend of mine.’ And he handed us a couple of drinks and told us to have fun,” Lardo added. “I love him.”

Just then, Eric ran to the middle of the room and shouted, “I hereby proclaim this party lit!”

Shitty and Lardo raised their glasses as everyone else burst into cheers. The music suddenly became louder and the apartment was filled with so many bodies, Jack couldn’t believe it.

Shitty and Lardo began to dance, and Lardo pulled Jack into their circle. He smiled and let himself go as he enjoyed the company of his friends. Lardo handed Jack her martini, and he took a swig. It was deliciously cold and went down like liquid silver. 

A warm hand clamped down on his wrist. Jack looked down, then tracked his gaze up a tanned forearm, a rolled up burgundy shirtsleeve, a strong shoulder, until he was staring into the face of its owner. Enormous brown eyes sparkled at him, and Eric said, “Dancing is one of the best things you can do for yourself. And it don’t cost a thing. Frankie Knuckles said that, you know.”

Jack let himself be led by Eric to a corner of the dining room where the table had been removed to make room.

Eric shimmied and said, “Come on, honey. Let’s dance.”

Instantly, Jack felt looser and happier as he let himself go with the thump-thump-thump of the music.

**+++**

The traitorous sunlight woke Jack up like Glo coming in and slapping at his face. He screwed his eyes even more tightly shut, and moaned, feeling simultaneously spinny and unable to move. Jack peeled one eye open and the first thing he saw was his clock on the nightstand minding its business as it tick-tocked away.

It was 10:30 a.m.

He had no recollection of returning to his apartment, or what had happened afterward. He was still fully dressed and had apparently hopped into bed like that.

Jack rubbed his face and frowned; his mouth felt dry and tongue felt thick. He was about to get up for a drink of water when he heard a soft moan next to him. His eyes grew wide as saucers. He rolled over, and his heart just about dropped down to his feet when he saw who it was. 

Eric stirred and opened his eyes. He looked at Jack with a big sleepy smile on his face. He looked gorgeous, of course; rosy-cheeked, hair tousled perfectly.

“Hey, you,” Eric whispered.

Jack could only swallow and nod. And, just as he kick-started his brain to say something, anything, Eric jumped out of the bed. He, too, was fully clothed.

“It was nice meeting you, Jack.” 

Eric grabbed his shoes from the bedroom floor, and walked out, tossing Jack a casual, “See ya!” over his shoulder.

A moment later, the front door slammed shut. Jack sat there, stupefied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jacqueemackee wondered what Jack’s first novel would be about. Of course, being the dork that I am, I went ahead and not only created a book cover for it, but also a summary:
> 
>  
> 
> [Frankie Knuckles](https://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/frankie-knuckles-godfather-of-house-music-dead-at-59-20140401) knew what's what.
> 
> Thanks again to the usual suspects. xo


	4. Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the day after the party. What happened? Shitty clues Jack in. Also, Jack gets a sudden burst of creative energy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Monday, and time for another chapter. Thanks for your lovely comments and encouragements!

Jack didn’t recall much of the previous night, other than dancing and drinking cocktails. He remembered Shitty handing him a drink—or three—and remembered some sort of dance with Lardo. 

Jack scratched his head. He vaguely remembered Eric pressed against him, as Eric laughed and swayed to the music. 

Jack grabbed his phone.

 **Jack** : _Are you awake?_

 **Shitty** : _Just barely. Am I dead? I feel dead._

 **Jack** : _What the hell happened last night?_

 **Shitty** : _Ho-ho-ho! What do you mean? *eggplant emoji*_

 **Jack** : _WHAT HAPPENED?_

 **Shitty** : _What happened was you were the life of the motherfucking party that’s what happened. It was glorious! Your mom would be so proud._

Jack stared at his phone and blinked. He rubbed the words there with his thumb, willing them to somehow make more sense.

 **Jack** : _Meet me at Troy’s in an hour._

Jack made his way to their regular table, where Lardo and Shitty were already seated. Lardo wore an enormous pair of sunglasses and looked like Jackie O. Shitty had his head down on the table. His hair stuck up in a ridiculously out of control cowlick at the back of his head.

“Laurent,” Lardo said without removing her sunglasses, as Shitty waved a hand weakly.

Sibyl came up to the group and passed around three bloody marys. “Here you go. You all look like you’re in desperate need of some hair of the dog.”

Shitty groaned his thanks, while Lardo gingerly took hers and slurped at the straw.

“That’s the stuff,” she muttered. “So, Jack. How are you doing this morning?” 

Lardo smirked the biggest smirk that Jack had ever seen. She reached back behind her ear and flicked her sunglasses up and down as she wagged her eyebrows. Her makeup from last night was still smeared around her eyes.

Shitty raised his head slowly and said, “Brah, you were dancing and drinking all night. Like, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you let loose like that before. It was a sight to behold.”

“But I don’t dance. I’m mean, apart from jumping around with you two,” Jack cried out. 

“Dude, I know!” Lardo said with a laugh. “You were totally cutting a rug all night, Jack.”

“The entire night?” Jack asked as he took off his Habs snapback and placed it on the seat next to him.

“Well, not the entire night,” Lardo said. “When you weren’t dancing, you and Eric were on the couch talking.”

“Or in the kitchen, being hand-fed hors d'oeuvres,” Shitty said, then put his head back down over his folded arms.

“He was feeding me?” Jack said in a near whisper.

“Darn tootin’ he was,” Shitty replied.

“You all know what you want? Besides immediate death?” Sibyl asked.

“Can I get a cheeseburger with fries, a side order of bacon, and a Coke with extra crushed ice?” Shitty asked. 

“Good lord, you are hungover,” Sibyl said with a laugh.

“I’ll have the same,” Jack added which caused Sibyl to raise an eyebrow.

“Hard same,” Lardo piped in.

“Sounds good,” Sibyl said.

The three sat in silence until Jack cleared his throat. “So, uh… I woke up this morning and… um…”

“Spit it out, Jacko," Shitty begged. "I may expire any minute now, and then I’ll never know what you were trying to spill.” 

“I woke up and Eric was in bed with me,” Jack whooshed out in one breath.

Shitty’s head immediately popped up. “Jack Laurent Zimmermann, FUCKING OUTSTANDING!” 

Lardo whipped off her sunglasses and looked at Jack with huge eyes. “Bro, nice,” she added.

“I don’t think anything happened. We were both still fully clothed, and it’s not like we woke up tangled together or anything.”

“What did you say?” Lardo asked.

“I didn’t say anything,” Jack said. “He said it was nice meeting me, grabbed his shoes, said, ‘See ya!’ and left. I didn’t get a chance to say a thing.”

Shitty and Lardo both groaned in frustration. Shitty rubbed his temples. “Ow! That literally, physically hurt.”

“Dude, you didn’t say anything?” 

Jack protested, “I didn’t have a chance!”

Shitty held up a finger, took a long drink of his bloody mary and said, “M’kay, this is what you’re gonna do...” 

He let out a tiny burp and continued, “You’re going to inhale your cheeseburger, then take your glorious ass back to your apartment and you’re going to march it straight up to Eric’s apartment and ask him out. The way I see it, you two already got the awkward part out of the way, right?”

**+++**

After Troy’s, Jack made his way to the apartment. He took the elevator up and, as it opened on his floor, he paused and wondered if he should go up one more flight. Maybe Eric needed some help cleaning up after last night, or maybe he and Jack should chat while they were both sober? There were so many maybes.

The elevator doors began to close, and Jack shot his arm out to re-open them. He exited on his own floor.

Glorieux waited for him at the door and rubbed herself against his leg as he entered. 

“Hey, baby girl." He leaned down to scratch her head. “Hungry?”

She ran to the kitchen and Jack took out the container with her kibble. He poured some food into Glo’s bowl and pulled the coffee beans from the fridge to get a pot going. Jack looked up at the ceiling. Not a peep. Maybe Eric was still sleeping? Should he go upstairs? He’d wait and see if he heard any noise and decide what to do.

For now, he figured he might as well do some work. He poured himself a cup of coffee and went to his study. He saw the copy of Baudelaire he'd found in the hallway on his desk and picked it up. Each page had notes written in the margins. Some pages had exclamation marks and smiley faces. Jack leafed through it and paused at a random page and began to read.

“Alone at last! Not a sound to be heard but the rumbling of some belated and decrepit cabs. For a few hours we shall have silence, if not repose. At last the tyranny of the human face has disappeared, and I myself shall be the only cause of my sufferings…”

Jack stopped and closed the book. “Jesus. Well, all right then.” He sat at his desk and powered up his laptop. “Let’s see how today goes.” Jack cracked his knuckles and dove in.

Three hours later, Jack looked up and realized he had been writing nonstop. And it was all good! Jack was normally his own worst critic, but he read and reread what he had written and was quite happy with it.

“Damn,” he whispered. “Could this finally be it?”

He took a swig of his long-cold coffee and continued to work, and didn’t stop until his stomach growled so loudly it actually woke up Glo who had been asleep in Jack’s lap.

Jack smiled brightly and picked up his phone.

“Ahoy hoy!” Shitty said at the end of the line.

“Shits! I wrote three chapters today. Three!”

“Hot diggity dog, Jack-o-lantern! That’s incredible,” Shitty bellowed.

“And they don’t suck.” 

“Even better. Never a doubt in my mind.” 

“I’m going to keep working,” Jack said excitedly.

“That’s great, Jack, but I’m gonna need you to stop and get something to eat because I guaranfuckingtee you, you haven’t eaten since that burger this morning.”

“I promise. I’ll eat something.”

“Great! You’re no good to me dead, Jack,” Shitty said.

“Talk to you later, Shits.”

_“Tell me every terrible thing you ever did,” Violet said one evening as she and Barbara were cocooned together in the quiet safety of their bed._

_“Will you love me anyway?” Barbara asked._

_“If you let me,” said Violet._

Jack read what he wrote, smiled and kept writing.

**+++**

Over the next few days, Jack felt as though he were on fire. His creative juices flowed freely, he slept like a log each night and woke with a renewed vigor he hadn’t felt in months.

As Jack worked, he could hear Eric upstairs as he sang the hours away. “The turn in the weather,” Eric sang along with Ella Fitzgerald, “will keep us together, so I can honestly say that as far as I'm concerned, it's a lovely daaaayyy…” 

Jack had grown comforted by Eric’s soothing voice. And so, Jack worked, created and was the happiest he’d been in a while. Then, just as quickly as it had come, his inspiration left.

Jack sat in his living room and looked out the window at a heavy New York rainstorm. He took his commemorative Habs La Coupe Stanley puck from the coffee table, frowned and sank back into his couch. Jack twirled his puck and tossed it in the air.

“Fuuuuucccccck…” he moaned.

Above his head, Eric stomped around the apartment. He no longer sang and had returned to his previous bricks-for-shoes ways. 

“Good to see some things remain the same,” Jack said bitterly. 

Eric’s party seemed so long ago. Had they even slept in the same bed? Since Eric never came down to see Jack, and Jack never got up the nerve to visit Eric, he assumed it had been a one-night standish sort of thing.

He heard a loud crash above his head, and jumped up from the couch. What had happened? What if Eric had hurt himself? He slipped on his gym shoes and ran upstairs.

Jack hesitated, then knocked on the door of 15B.

“Yes?” Eric called from the other side.

“Uh, it’s me. Jack. Jack Zimmermann. From 14B. Downstairs? Are you okay? That was a pretty big crash.”

Eric opened the door and smiled warmly at Jack. “Jack, honey. It’s good to see you. Come in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made [a Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1230226094/playlist/7kq6ujIM3MNlLstFGHR95L?si=PHdJeAN1RXijn_IlnHchMQ) for the fic. Songs Eric has sang and listened to: Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Chet Baker--that sort of stuff.


	5. Little Ordinary Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey and yay! We can finally see the entire illustration that [Teluete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teluete) created. It's gorgeous, smother it with your eyes. <3 Also, thanks again to [Stultiloquentia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stultiloquentia) for their help with this chapter. And thanks to you for reading and showing your support! :)

“Common sense tells us that the things of the earth exist only a little, and that true reality is only in dreams.” - Charles Baudelaire

**+++**

Eric’s apartment seemed so much larger than Jack's, somehow, even though they had the exact same layout. The rain began to let up, and Eric walked over to open his curtains. He stopped and fluffed a pillow on his couch, and glanced at Jack curiously. _Cheek to Cheek_ by Fred Astaire played in the background.

“Would you like some tea? I was just about to have some.”

“Uh, sure. Thank you.”

Eric nodded.

Jack stood there awkwardly and repeated, “Are you okay? Like I said, I thought I heard a really big crash.”

“Crash?” Eric said as he stroked the back of the couch and brushed past Jack to make his way to the kitchen. “No, I don’t think so.”

Jack frowned. “Oh, okay?” 

He followed Eric into the kitchen. Eric poured hot water into two teacups, and the infusers instantly released a scrumptious, inviting scent.

“Honey?”

“Yes?” Jack replied.

Eric shook his head and smiled. “No, I mean, would you like some honey? For your tea.”

Jack’s face burned as he rolled his eyes and mentally punched himself. “Yes, please.”

Eric put the tea on a tray along with a tiny pot of honey and a small pitcher of milk. He moved with an easy fluidity that drew Jack’s eyes. 

“The cookies in the oven should be ready in few minutes. Let’s go sit in the living room while they finish baking. Sound good?”

“Sure,” Jack said and followed behind Eric.

Eric handed Jack his cup, and Jack took a deep whiff and a small sip. The tea was slightly earthy, floral, with hints of citrus and mint. It warmed Jack throughout and he felt instantly at ease.

“So, Jack… what can I do for you?” Eric asked.

“Do for me?” Jack rotated his teacup on the saucer, not quite sure what Eric meant.

“Well, you came up here. Looking for something, maybe?”

“No, I… I was just worried about you, that’s all. I haven’t seen you since, well, since the night of your party.”

Eric smiled. “Yes, the party. That was fun, wasn’t it?”

Jack shrugged sheepishly and put his cup down. He rose from the couch and walked toward Eric’s bookshelves. 

“You have a lot of great books here. I was looking them over that night.”

“You like reading? You can borrow any one of them, anytime you like.”

Jack hummed thoughtfully as he perused row after row, paused and pulled out a thick green book and studied it with wonder.

“You have a Bloomsbury first edition of _The History of Herodotus_?”

Eric smiled warmly. “Uh-huh, I do.”

Jack carefully flipped through the pages. “It’s gorgeous. Published in 1935, translated from Greek by Rawlinson. There were only 675 printed. Wow…”

“A book _and_ history buff, huh? I wasn't kidding; you can borrow it, if you like.” 

“Thanks. I majored in history in college, and books have always been my thing. Books and hockey, I guess.”

“Hockey? I wouldn’t have pegged you for a sports guy.”

“Canadian,” he explained, and put the book back.

“So you like history, hockey, books and what else?” Eric asked as he put his teacup down, got comfortable, and looked over at Jack. Jack studied Eric’s bare feet.

“ _Love_ history, hockey, and books,” he corrected with a tiny grin. “Also, I write. I’m a writer.”

“Really? That’s great, Jack. What do you write?”

“Fiction. I wrote a novel,” Jack said. “I guess people liked it. So now I’m writing another one.”

“And how’s that going?”

There was something about Eric’s tone that made Jack feel vulnerable, but in a good way—as if he could be completely open with Eric and he’d be safe and supported. And so, he did. Jack walked over and sat next to Eric. 

“Terrible,” he said with a rueful laugh. “I’ve had writer’s block almost the entire time. It’s been such a different experience from writing the first one. You’d think it’d be the other way around. But no.”

“What do you think has changed?” Eric asked.

Jack exhaled loudly and ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. I have no idea. I don’t know if maybe… it’s the pressure? I mean, no one knew me from Adam with the first book. So I just tossed it out into the world and hoped for the best. But now, there’s expectation.”

“Which can be a scary thing. People can be let down, and that’s not a nice thing to ponder,” Eric said as he looked into Jack’s eyes. 

“Yes, exactly. Or what if it turns out the first book was just a fluke? My father is always telling me to be better, but what if there is no ‘better?’” 

Jack let out a long, broken breath and felt his as though his chest wanted to constrict. Eric leaned closer and rubbed soft circles onto Jack’s back.

“You know what you need?” 

“What?”

“A cookie,” Eric said with a smile just as the oven beeped.

Jack laughed as Eric jumped off the couch and made his way toward the kitchen. Jack looked at a stack of books on the floor and noticed there were several by Baudelaire. He picked one up, and it was annotated, just like the one downstairs in his study. 

“Did you lose a book of poetry by Baudelaire, recently?” Jack called out.

“Actually, yeah, I did,” Eric replied.

“I found it in the lobby. It sure has a lot of notes written in it. I can bring it to you later, if you’d like.” 

“Keep it,” Eric said as he returned with a plate cookies. “I love his evocative use of language. You know?”

Jack was instantly hit with a most beloved scent. “Are those… maple cookies?”

“Yep,” Eric said and offered the plate to Jack.

“They’re my favorites,” he said and took a large bite of one. It was soft and warm, and melted in his mouth.

“How about that,” Eric replied with a soft smile.

Jack ate the rest of the cookie and instantly took another. 

“So what do you think would help you? With your block this time?” 

“I don’t know…” Jack said and shook his head. “I mean, if I knew, I would one hundred and ten percent be doing it. The past few days have been great in that I seemed to have hit my stride again and I managed to crank out several chapters—chapters I felt good about—but now, I’ve hit another wall.”

“Jack, why do you write?” Eric asked as he brought his teacup to his lips.

“What do you mean?” 

“Why do you write? Do you love it? Do you feel passionate about it? As passionate about it as hockey?” Eric said with a tiny smirk. “Like, and this is completely corny, if writing itself were personified, would you totally want to make out with it?”

Jack looked at Eric’s wide eyes and curious expression and said, “Yes. I write because I have to. I must.” 

Eric smiled and nodded at Jack to encourage him to go on, and so he did.

“I just have to. My entire life has been devoted to the written word. I taught myself to read when I was four. When I was eight, I made up a handwritten newspaper and delivered it to my neighbors’ mailboxes in Montreal.”

Eric’s smile grew as Jack continued, “When I was in sixth grade, I won the Literary Prize for Young Authors for my story, _Murder at the Clock Tower_. Writing is what drives me every day. I have a love/hate relationship with it, but I have to do it.”

Jack took a slow drink of his tea, hiding his sudden embarrassment behind the cup.

Eric said with an encouraging smile, “So write. Remember all the reasons you write. And then think about the story you’re trying to tell.”

Jack took a bite of cookie and chewed thoughtfully. 

“Why are you telling the story, Jack? What is the purpose? Do the characters feel like people you know? Do you know their lives and reasons for living?”

Jack pictured Sergeant Gagnon, Violet, Spenser, and everyone else in that world he had created and what their fates would be. Did he know? 

“Yeah… I do.”

“And what do you want for them? What’s the outcome? Their journey?”

“I think I know what it is. No, I do. I do know!”

Eric laughed, “So go and write, silly boy!”

Jack smiled brightly and jumped up, “Sorry! Eric, I have to go.”

Eric ran over and opened the door for Jack, who waved and ran downstairs. “Go get ’em!” Jack heard Eric shout as he made his way to his apartment.

That night, Jack wrote three chapters and stumbled into bed, hungry, exhausted and the happiest he’d been in over a week. He slept with a smile on his face all night...

**+++**

“How is the latest chapter going?” Eric asked as he placed a PBJ in front of Jack.

“You think these'll help my writing?” 

“Mr. Zimmermann, I'm sure of it,” Eric said happily. “So? Chapter?”

“Good. It’s good! I rewrote the last chapter because it wasn’t quite working, then realized what I had to do was switch Violet’s speech to Edmund and it all made much more sense,” Jack said happily as he reached for the sandwich. 

“I love those little ‘aha!’ moments,” Eric said.

Jack chuckled. “You didn't have to cut off the crusts, Eric.”

“But I cut the crusts just for you,” Eric said as he sat across Jack with his own sandwich. 

Jack smiled. In the last few weeks, visiting Eric had become a part of Jack’s schedule and writing process. He’d still write until 1:00 p.m., but he’d head up to Eric’s at 1:30, where they’d eat a late lunch together and Eric would read over Jack’s latest chapter and offer advice, or Jack would bounce ideas off of Eric. 

Eric was a deep thinker, an excellent listener, had a vast array of knowledge (even surprising Jack with obscure history trivia), had a critical eye and an ear for language that Jack just appreciated so much. And he made Jack laugh, often, which was something so very few people did.

Shitty and Lardo noticed how happy Jack seemed lately as well. He was relaxed but focused. (“Whatever it is you’re doing Jack, babe, just keep doing it,” Shitty said enthusiastically.)

Jack slowed his chewing and looked at Eric. “You know, I feel a bit embarrassed and maybe even guilty having you take care of me all of the time.”

“Honey, we’re friends. I love helping you…”

“I know, and you’ve been nothing but helpful.”

Eric smiled as Jack put his sandwich down.

“I don’t have a lot of friends—but you already knew that. In fact, you know a lot about me, and I feel like I don’t know half as much about you.”

Eric shrugged, “There’s not much to tell.”

“Now I don’t believe that for a second.”

Eric shook his head and muttered, “I really don’t… I mean, why?”

“Okay, we’ll start simple,” Jack said with a smile. “Tell me one thing about you that most people don’t know.”

Eric fiddled with his PBJ, then studied Jack. “You really want to know? Really?”

“Yes, really.”

Eric laughed softly. “You’re the first one who’s ever asked me about me.” 

“The first one? The first one what?”

“No, nothing. Okay, um… let me think.” 

Jack watched as Eric sucked on his lower lip and looked deep in thought.

“Oh! Here we go, even though I love to bake and adore pies, I don’t like cake.”

“You don’t like cake? Blasphemy!” Jack teased as Eric laughed and playfully smacked his arm.

“Stop that, or else I won’t say another word.”

“What else?” Jack asked with a grin. “What your favorite song? Favorite movie? Color? Poem?”

“Whoa, there,” Eric said as he threw his hands up in surrender. “That’s a lot of asking. Song? Let’s see here… _Julia_ by The Beatles. My favorite movie is _Wings of Desire_. I love the color blue, and even though I grew up being taught to appreciate the classics, my favorite poem is relatively new.”

“Which poem? My mom edits poetry, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Eric said quickly. “The poem’s called _Water_.” Eric got up from the table and left the kitchen. He returned with a book and handed it to Jack. “I want you to read this.” 

“ _One Stick Song_?” 

Eric sat down and nodded, “Yep, it’s a small collection of poems and short prose. The entire thing is lovely, very powerful, but _Water_ is my favorite piece. One stanza talks about a woman who swims naked in the freezing ocean.”

Jack smiled as he took in Eric’s enthusiasm. He briefly considered Eric swimming in the ocean. He coughed nervously and squished the thought down.

“And it has a great line about how the narrator wants to tell her she’s crazy, ‘for having so much faith in two parts hydrogen, one part oxygen.’” Eric sighed, “I think that’s just gorgeous. Don’t you?” Eric took the book from Jack, leafed through it and found the page. “See?” he said as he bounced happily in his seat.

Jack scoot his chair closer to Eric’s. “What else? Tell me more.”

Eric’s face broke into an enormous smile. “Goodness, you really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“I just want to know everything about you,” Jack blurted out, then quickly added, “That’s what friendship is, right? Knowing your friends?”

Eric eyes grew and he laughed—which was something Jack realized he’d never tire of hearing.

“Yes,” Eric beamed.

“Since we’re friends,” Jack paused then continued, “can I ask you something?”

Eric took off his glasses and met Jack’s gaze. “Of course, honey.”

“What happened the night of the party? Between us?”

Another blush spread across Eric’s cheeks, and Jack tried to fight the smirk that wanted to appear on his face. Usually, Eric made Jack blush, not the other way around.

“What do you mean?” Eric asked coyly.

“That night, that morning… did something happen?” Jack asked.

Eric cleared his throat and looked somewhat rattled, but quickly regained composure. 

“No. Nothing happened. We were both perfect gentlemen. We danced and laughed most of the night. Drank lots of champagne. You talked about Ambrose Bierce for about half an hour.”

Jack groaned and laughed.

“And you said you needed to sleep. Shitty and Lardo had already left, so I walked you down to your apartment. I tucked you in, and I guess I was so tired I just fell asleep, too.”

“That’s all?”

Eric nodded.

“Well thanks for tucking me in,” Jack said softly. 

Eric smiled, “Of course.”

The two locked eyes, and Eric’s breath hitched. Eric was so smart, and always had such great advice for Jack, and Jack felt so good in his company… and god, he was so beautiful on top of all that. Jack realized what he wanted to do most in the world in that moment was to kiss Eric.

“Oh! I love this song,” Eric said as he darted up from the table and raised the volume on his Sonos. Jack couldn’t help but notice the space Eric had instantly placed between them.

“Don’t you just love Billie Holiday?” Eric murmured as he stood over by the oven, his back to Jack.

_The very thought of you_  
_And I forget to do_  
_Those little ordinary things_  
_That everyone ought to do..._

Jack rose from the table and slowly walked over to Eric. He tapped him on the shoulder.

“Would you like to dance?”

Eric nodded, but didn’t turn around. 

Jack gently took his hand, and turned him around. He placed his hand on Eric’s waist and began to slow dance with him in the kitchen, Billie Holiday as their witness.

Jack laughed, a whisper of a laugh, twirled Eric and dipped him, as a joyful calm energy traveled through the room. The two grinned, and Jack pulled Eric closer. Eric instantly stilled as Jack pressed his cheek against his hair and breathed in the most intoxicating scent he had ever smelled in his life.

Eric, in turn, burrowed his face into Jack’s neck and sighed. “Jaaaack… I shouldn’t be doing this. We can’t.”

Jack pulled back and looked at Eric. “No?”

Eric looked up at Jack and chewed on his bottom lip, as Jack cupped his cheek.

“Should I stop?” Jack asked.

Eric’s brow knitted as he pushed himself up onto his toes and met Jack’s lips with his. Jack let out a surprised huff and immediately wrapped his arms around Eric and the two became lost in their kiss...

_I see your face in every flower_  
_Your eyes in stars above_  
_It's just the thought of you,_  
_The very thought of you, my love_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Eric loves:  
> 
> 
> * [Water](http://abrolosojos.blogspot.com/2012/05/water-by-sherman-alexie.html) by Sherman Alexie
> 
> * Wim Wenders' [Wings of Desire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wlkdLLqBux0)
> 
> * [Julia](https://open.spotify.com/track/6FZdFkP2IjF99eDahDT8SH?autoplay=true&v=T) by The Beatles


	6. A Million Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Eric become close, and Jack realizes he's in love while Eric reveals a big secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, only three chapters left after this one and they're all on the longish side. Um... so some angst begins in this one. Sorry. :( Thanks for your lovely comments!

“It is time to get drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of Time, get drunk; get drunk without stopping! On wine, on poetry, or on virtue, as you wish.” - Charles Baudelaire

**+++**

“Hey there, sweetpea…”

Jack stirred in his bed, and smiled when he felt Eric spoon him; their legs tangled together. Jack’s smiled grew wider.

“You wanted me to make sure you woke up by 8:00,” Eric whispered in Jack’s ear. “Well, it’s 8:00.”

“But how can I be expected to get out of bed, when I have you in it?” Jack asked.

“Listen, mister,” Eric said with sudden sass, “it’s time for you to get your gorgeous ass out of this bed, make me some coffee, and start writing.”

Jack hummed and reached out hands and feet into a delicious full body stretch.

“Fine,” he said and then turned and snatched Eric into his arms. 

Eric shrieked with laughter and melted into Jack. He planted tiny kisses on Jack’s chest. 

“How does some french toast and extra crispy bacon sound?” Eric asked in between kisses.

“Like heaven,” Jack said.

Eric climbed up to meet Jack’s lips, and the two instantly deepened their kiss.

“Someone needs to brush his teeth,” Eric said with a frown.

“Haha, you don’t care,” Jack said as he kissed Eric’s nose.

“No, I really don’t,” Eric replied with a laugh and dove back in.

**+++**

“Jack, these chapters are off the chart, man. That part where Violet goes to Spenser’s grave? I fucking cried like a baby, man,” Shitty said as he dabbed at the corner of his eye.

Jack sat across from Shitty’s desk in Shitty’s Gramercy office. 

“I’m gonna be honest with you, brah. I think this is actually better than _We Regret to Inform You_. No joke,” Shitty said as he slammed his fist on his desk.

“I’m glad you like it, Shits. Hope Falconer feels the same way,” Jack said as he felt his smile grow.

“Hells yes, they do. George said she fucking adores what she’s read so far. She said, and I quote, ‘This has been a joy to edit.’ This is top choice! USDA prime, Jacko." Shitty leaned back and put his feet on his desk. "I already had Simon & Schuster and HarperCollins casually give me a call, asking if we were still okay with Falconer Press. I just about fell outta my chair. Totally refreshing not to have to go after people for once.” 

“Shits, you’ve been walking all over New York. Do you really want your feet on the desk where you eat your lunch?” Jack said with a frown.

“Meh, I’m building my immunity.” Shitty waved his hand nonchalantly. 

Jack laughed and then found himself looking at the framed photo of Lardo on Shitty’s desk. She was wearing paint-splattered overalls and in the midst of a full-body laugh. Jack had taken the photo at her studio in Kotter, where she'd been working on her senior project. When Jack had given a copy to Shitty for Christmas, Shitty had teared up, saying, “‘Chyeah, that’s her. That’s my girl.”

Jack smiled, happy for their love, and just feeling generally in love with love. 

“So… enough chit chat about all the words. How are things with you and Eric? Still heaven on seven?” Shitty asked, not beating around the bush.

Jack felt his cheeks pink. “Ah, well, you know how it is.”

Shitty threw him an enormous shit eating grin. “No, I don’t. Tell me.”

Jack flipped Shitty off, and Shitty threw his head back in laughter. 

“Dude, you can tell me anything. No judgment,” Shitty said with a wicked smile. 

“I’m… I think I… I just really, really like him, okay, Shits?” Jack blurted out. “And he likes me.”

It felt so good to say it out loud. Shitty looked at Jack as though he were about to cry. 

“Oh god… please don’t,” Jack said with mock horror.

“Fuck you, Jack Zimmermann!” Shitty said as he wiped at the corners of his eyes. “I’m happy for you, Jack. I swear to god, no one deserves this more than you.”

Jack smiled and thought that, just maybe, it was true.

**+++**

Jack and Eric had fallen into an easy domesticity, as though they had known each other for years rather than just a few months.

Jack’s schedule now took Eric into account. Jack would wake at 7:45 or so, but he and Eric would stay in bed until 8:30 or 9:00ish if they were feeling particularly amorous. They’d shower, make breakfast together, and then Jack would write until noon. Often times he’d write on the couch with Eric’s feet in his lap and Jack’s laptop balanced on top of them.

They’d break for lunch and Eric would read over Jack’s work. He’d offer him advice and a solid sounding board. After lunch—which Jack would insist on making—they would tumble back into bed and fill Jack’s bedroom with the sounds of laughter, kisses, and soft moans.

Afterward, as Jack and Eric would lounge in bed, Jack would coax Eric into telling him stories about his youth; where he grew up, what his friends were like. It seemed as though Eric was always reluctant to share too much about his past, while Jack wanted to know everything about it. He wanted to know Eric intimately, in every way. For as much as Eric was an inspiration to Jack, Jack hoped that he could bring as much joy to Eric as he gave him.

“What were you like in school?” Jack asked once.

“A procrastinator,” Eric said with a laugh.

“I find that hard to believe,” Jack said as he nuzzled Eric’s head. “You’re so fastidious.”

“Huh… well maybe now I am, and believe me that took years and years and years. But in school, I was a hot mess. My professors were big believers of the Socratic Method, and while everyone else was busy chatting it up and asking questions, I really just wanted to read and think. I was always behind in my studies.”

“You’re one of the smartest people I know,” Jack said earnestly. 

Eric curled up closer to Jack, “Thanks for noticing, honey.”

When they’d make their way out of the bedroom, Eric would play the piano and compose while Jack went back to writing. At 5:00, he’d call it a day. 

Eric had made Jack promise not to work on the weekends. Saturdays and Sundays were for reading, talking about everything under the sun (Eric had mentioned once that he loved their sharing of ideas and anecdotes), cooking together, and exploring one another’s bodies in Eric’s apartment.

And so, as they sat in Jack’s apartment one quiet Wednesday morning, Jack came to the realization that he might be falling in love with Eric. He had felt deeply for Eric for some time now, but he'd been afraid to think about love, and so he had shoved those feelings down and hidden them.

“So in this second paragraph, when you wrote, ‘He jumped out of the jeep,’ which he are you talking about? Russell or Mitch?” Eric asked as he lay across the couch and concentrated intently on Jack’s latest chapter in his hands.

Jack, who sat in an armchair with his laptop perched on his legs, had stopped typing. Eric wore his glasses, a soft flannel with the sleeves rolled up, and the shortest pair of shorts Jack had ever seen. He was lost in contemplation of Eric’s legs, his adorable socked feet, his goddamn perfect cowlick—his everything. 

And it was in that moment that Jack thought to himself, _I’m not falling in love with him. I am in love with him. This is it._ Crisse, _this is absolutely it. I love him, I love him, I love him._

Jack’s love was all at once startling and the most reassuring thing ever.

“Jack?” Eric asked, looking up at Jack over his glasses. “Russell or Mitch, sweetheart?”

Jack put down his laptop, jumped out of his seat, walked over the Eric and dropped to his knees. 

“Eric, I…”

“Yes?”

Jack opened and closed his mouth a few times, willing the words to come but they did not. Instead, he pulled Eric toward him, settled himself between his legs, and frantically reached for the drawstring on Eric’s shorts.

“Jack? H-honey—what… Oh! Oh, my…” 

Jack used his mouth in other ways to express what he desperately wanted to say.

**+++**

Eric smiled as he tilted his head to the side and examined the enormous marble statue in front of him. The sunshine poured in through the Met’s sculpture garden skylights. If they weren’t busy working, or in the bedroom, Eric’s most favorite place to be in the city was The Met. They visited as often as they could and took turns playing tour guide for each other. Eric knew even more about the galleries than Jack, and well, that just pleased Jack more than he could say.

“I spoke with my father while you were at the store,” Jack said as he reached for his camera and took a photo of Eric. His hair shone in the sunlight. “He read over the chapters I sent him.”

“And?”

“And he said he’s never heard my voice so clear and strong as it is in this book.”

“Wow, that’s really great, honey. I know how much his approval means to you.”

“Well, not just his approval, but having him see me as a peer.” Jack reached out and took Eric’s hand and pressed a kiss to it. Eric smiled with an abundance of warmth in his eyes.

Jack wandered over to a bench and sat. “It was great. He wasn’t lecturing me or giving me unwanted advice. He was actually talking to me like a grown up. As though I were just one of his equals.”

“He knows talent when he sees it,” Eric said as he sat next to Jack.

Jack smiled. “Oh, and he also said he’d like us to come up and see them, so they can meet you. My mom, in particular, is dying to get to know you.”

“Your mom, huh? Er, uh… I don’t know,” Eric said quickly. 

Jack laughed. “My parents are the most relaxed people you’ll ever meet. If anything, they might just get way into your personal space because they love hugging everyone.”

“Let’s put a pin on that for now, huh?” Eric said.

“I don’t mean to pressure you, or anything, bud. It’s totally fine,” Jack said as he leaned in and kissed Eric’s temple. He wrapped an arm around him and heard Eric exhale happily.

The thing about relationships was that while Jack was good looking, smart, and a considerate friend, not very many people could look past the bookish, awkward history nerd who loved hockey and adored his cat. Jack had had a few relationships with both men and women, but he'd found them more of a distraction than anything else.

During his years at Samwell, Jack had occasionally dated during his freshie and softie years but had stopped cold turkey.

“You know how Samwell is one in four, maybe more?” Shitty had once said. “Well, you bisexual iconic god, your odds are four in four. Be greedy, you fucking beaut!”

Jack had only shrugged and said, “I have other things to concentrate on, Shits.”

And so, Jack Zimmermann really didn’t date. He was happy in school with his friends, watching Lardo and Shitty fall in love, and Ransom and Holster pair off soon after. Jack didn’t mind being the fifth wheel. He was thrilled playing on the Samwell team, graduating with honors, writing his stories, petting his cat… and that was enough.

Only when he met Eric did he think to himself, _Aha! This is it. This is what I’ve been missing; what I didn’t know I always wanted._

For Jack, Eric was everything sweet and kind in the world. 

He was gentle with all those around him. Jack could see it with every interaction Eric had with various people in their everyday lives, from the bag boy at the grocery store to the little old lady who ran the local bakery. Eric was funny, so smart, sexy, and Jack just felt _comfortable_ with Eric. He could talk to him about anything and everything. And for someone who had grown up as shy and unsure as Jack, well, that meant everything. 

**+++**

_“What it is that makes us human?” McGregor asked Violet as they looked out toward the sea._

_“What defines who we are?” He continued, “Is it your family? Job? Religion? Or something simpler than all that? What sets us apart from the beasts of the night that could destroy you and not give it a second thought?”_

_“Could it also be the thing that saves you?” Violet asked in a soft timbre._

Jack saved his document and then tossed up a fist in victory. “Yes! Eric, it’s done! _Câlice!_ It’s done.”

Eric ran in from the kitchen and laughed. “If you are breaking out the Quebecois swear words, it must be true!”

Eric jumped into Jack’s arms, and Jack spun him around.

“Oh, Jack!” Eric yelled out joyfully. 

“Eric! Hahaha!” Jack planted kisses on Eric’s head. 

"You did it! Honey!"

“God, Eric.” Jack pulled back and said, “I couldn’t have done it without you. You were my greatest cheering section.”

Eric laughed. “You ding-dong! You need to call Shitty!”

“We need to go out and celebrate tonight. How does dinner sound? And we’ll see if Lardo and Shitty can join us.”

“It sounds perfect,” Eric said and kissed him.

Jack instantly lifted Eric, and Eric giggled and wrapped his legs around Jack’s waist. Jack stumbled to the bedroom as they drowned in each other’s kisses. 

Eric sighed. “Goodness, you’re delicious.”

Whenever Jack and Eric slept together, it was like coming home after a long trip away. Jack had never felt so much love, safety, and comfort in physical intimacy.

Jack lowered Eric onto his bed and unbuttoned his shirt while Eric clung to Jack, arms wrapped around Jack’s neck.

With his shirt flung into a far-off corner of the bedroom, Eric yanked at Jack’s t-shirt. Jack pulled it over his head and tossed it to the side. The two looked at one another as their breathing slowed and synced. Jack reached down and slowly slipped off Eric’s shorts and underwear. 

“What do you want?” Jack asked as he rested his head on Eric’s stomach and languidly ran his fingers through Eric’s wiry hair, ghosting them just over his cock. The clock in the bedroom ticked away and echoed throughout the space.

“Just you,” Eric replied.

And that’s what Jack gave him. Himself.

**+++**

A few months passed, and Jack’s manuscript had been edited, the cover designed, the launch party planned and everyone waited for Laurent la Glace’s latest novel, _Beasts of the Night_ , to be released.

While Jack was hard at work and excited, he noticed that Eric grew more and more withdrawn and distant. Whereas before Eric had loved to talk to Jack about his book and anything related to it, he now spent most of his time in the kitchen baking or reading as he sat on the opposite side of the room rather than cozied up next to Jack. 

And lately, Eric had spent more and more nights sleeping in his own place, instead of Jack’s apartment.

Jack ignored it at first and rationalized that perhaps he was just imagining things. And if he wasn’t imagining it, then he’d rather avoid any conversation that might lead to anything he absolutely did not want. Eventually, however, he couldn’t ignore it any longer. As Eric and Jack lay naked and together in bed, Jack finally brought it up.

“Eric?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Always…”

“What’s been happening with you lately? With… us?”

Eric stilled, and Jack felt a cold sweat overtake him.

“What do you mean?”

“Please don’t lie to me, Eric. That’s not who we are,” Jack said as he pulled back and looked at him. Eric already had tears in his eyes. Jack's stomach dropped. “What’s going on? Tell me, please?” 

Eric broke into a loud cry and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook as he wept.

“Eric, what’s wrong? What can I do to fix this? Whatever it is, I’m sorry,” Jack pleaded as he sat up in bed.

Eric shook his head. “No, sweetheart. I promise you, you didn’t do anything.” 

“What is it then? Eric… I love you. I’m in love with you. Please...”

“Oh, Jack!” Eric said and sobbed even harder. 

“Is it because I didn’t say it sooner? I’m so sorry, I should have. I’ve loved you for a while and I was scared to say so, but not anymore—”

“Jack, I love you, too. I’ve been loving you… but I can’t,” he choked out between convulsive gasps.

Jack jumped out of bed, frantically pulled on some sweatpants and began to pace across the bedroom as he tried to regulate his breathing. “W-what do you mean, you can’t?”

Eric wiped his tears and began to hiccup. “I shouldn’t have,” he cried. “It’s my fault!” 

“Bud, please. Tell me,” Jack said as he returned to the bed and knelt in front of Eric. He took Eric’s hands. “Please!”

Eric shook his head and cried some more. “You won’t believe me.” 

“I promise, I will. Just tell me what is going on.” Jack's own tears began to flow.

“Do you remember that night you asked the moon for help? You asked her to—to send you a muse?”

Jack looked at Eric intently and said, “I never told anyone that. H-how… how did you know?”

Eric swallowed and wiped at his face. “I know because I heard you, Jack.”

“You didn’t live upstairs yet, you couldn’t have heard me,” Jack said slowly.

“No, Jack. I _heard_ you… I heard your call to Artemis. I heard you, and you sounded so sincere and so unsure. I had to come and help you.” 

Jack whispered, “Eric?”

Eric let out a long, broken exhale and said, “I’m Clio. The muse of history and music.”

Jack stared at Eric for a beat and frowned. “Is this your way of breaking up with me?”

“Jack,” Eric said with utter defeat in his voice, “You called for a muse and I came. I hadn’t heeded anyone’s call in a long time because I’ve just been so disappointed with humanity but I heard you, Jack, and I came.”

Jack looked away from Eric, not sure what to think. Then Eric rose from the bed and revealed his true self to Jack.

The room filled with a brilliant light and Eric shone like the brightest star in the universe. When their eyes met, Jack felt as though he were witnessing a supernova. 

He stumbled back and landed on his bottom as he raised his arms to shield himself from Eric. Eric’s luminescence dissolved instantly, and he took the sheet from the bed and wrapped himself in it. He looked human once again, tiny and sad. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at Jack tenderly.

“I came and I moved in upstairs, and met you. And Jack, you… you were so brilliant and passionate and had such a good heart. So I decided to stay and work with you and help you through your writer’s block.”

Jack sat silently on the floor, completely stunned as Eric continued.

“And I had never felt anything like I felt with you. I had helped many before you, men and women that I mentored, but you… I had never met anyone like you.”

Eric jumped off the bed and crawled toward Jack, still wrapped in the sheet, which trailed behind him. He took Jack’s hand and held it to his chest.

“That night of the party, you asked me so sweetly to help you to your room. I walked you back down here, and you fell asleep right away. I was so moved by you, Jack, by how lovely and gentle you were. How you threw yourself into that party and really let go. It was so great. And I watched you sleep, and at that moment I knew all I wanted to do was be with you, and help you in any way I could.”

Jack looked at his hand in Eric’s and reached out to cup Eric’s face.

“I think I began to fall in love with right then and there…” Eric said with a sniffle as a tear landed on Jack's ring finger.

“And what’s wrong with that?” Jack asked. “I love you, you love me.”

“I can’t stay, Jack. I have a responsibility... There are rules. It was wrong of me to let this happen, knowing it couldn’t last. Knowing it shouldn’t last.”

Jack shook his head. “But we love each other.”

“I love you, Jack, I swear I do, but I can’t stay. I have to go back. I’ve already been summoned and have ignored all communication from home.”

Eric stood slowly, and Jack jumped up to meet him.

“Eric, don’t do this,” Jack said desperately. “Just, don’t.”

Eric sobbed once more, then took a deep, grounding breath. 

He wiped his eyes and said, “Jack, you are such a talented writer. Please remember that. All the work we did together, while I helped you, it was really just you. You did all the work.”

Jack pulled Eric into his arms. “Please!”

“I love you,” Eric said tenderly. He got on his tiptoes to kiss Jack one more time, and then he was gone.

All that was left was the sheet that had covered Eric, and Jack with a heart that broke into a million pieces.


	7. Where Art Thou, Muse?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Eric gone, Jack's devastated. Can Bob help Jack get back on his feet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more sad-ish chapter but this has some fun bits, too. 
> 
> Also, I just realized that there are not two chapters left, but one and a small epilogue which I'll post on the same day, so I guess Monday is the last day of posting. Thanks for all of your comments, they really brighten my day.

_Laurent la Glace’s sophomore effort is head and shoulders above any other work out this year._ \- The Washington Post

 _Beasts of the Night is one of the year’s best. A must read._ \- Publishers Weekly

 _La Glace’s second novel is destined to become a classic._ \- The New York Times

**+++**

Jack sat in his bedroom in silence and stared into the distance. The world went on outside, but Jack did not feel a part of it. Jack couldn’t even begin to comprehend where Eric might have gone. Olympus? Williamsburg? Just around the corner? Who the fuck knew?

_I see your face in every flower_  
_Your eyes in stars above_  
_It's just the thought of you,_  
_The very thought of you, my love_

It had been six months since he had last seen Eric, and _Beasts of the Night_ had been out for a few weeks. Jack spent most days huddled on the couch. Sometimes he looked up toward the ceiling and thought, “Eric’s couch was right above my head.” 

In that week alone, his parents had called him twice, Shitty had called him four times, Lardo had sent him several texts, and he’d even heard from Ransom and Holster, but none of it mattered when the one person he wanted to hear from was painfully, obviously absent.

He slept through old war documentaries on Netflix, watched recorded Habs games, ordered food to be delivered. He really had no reason to leave the house. 

Jack wondered if perhaps he were overreacting? 

He and Eric had been together for eight months, almost the same amount of time they’d been apart. Still, he felt the loss of Eric tremendously. His friend, his confidant, his lover was gone and Jack found himself alone again. How could he possibly find anyone like Eric ever again? And knowing who Eric really was, Jack knew that was the understatement of the millennium. There was no one like Eric.

Jack sat alone in his bed, _their_ bed, his back against the headboard; the light of dusk softly flooded the room. He absentmindedly held the switch of the bedside lamp in his hand, and flicked it on and off repeatedly. 

_Light on_  
_Light off_  
_Light on_  
_Light off_

Falconer Press had heavily pushed for an immediate book tour, but Shitty had managed to get Jack out of it for now. They were not pleased but since the book was already a smash, they'd let it slide to keep him happy, already looking forward to book number three.

Lardo and Shitty only knew that Eric and Jack had split, but neither knew exactly why, and Jack wasn’t forthcoming. And being respectful of Jack’s privacy, they never prodded. They’d come to visit at least once a week.

“It’s been months. Dude, do I need to kick your ass into gear?” Lardo asked sweetly as she brushed the hair off Jack’s forehead.

“I’m fine,” Jack grunted spread out on the couch, holding a pillow to his chest.

“Really? You don’t smell fine. You smell like carrion. And when was the last time you left the apartment?”

Jack shrugged petulantly. “Don’t need to leave. Every place delivers.”

Shitty walked in through the front door with several Gristedes tote bags.

“Okay, I got some fruits and veggies, milk, eggs, bread, ham, a ton of Rx bars. Some of those Noosa yogurts you like,” Shitty said and walked toward the kitchen. Lardo looked at him and gently shook her head.

“Don’t you two act like I’m an infant. I’m right here,” Jack said. “And I don’t need your goddamn pity.”

“My friend Jack is one of the best people I know. Heartbroken Jack, however, is a bit of an asshole but since he’s heartbroken, I’m willing to overlook it,” Shitty said as he came over and handed Jack a blood orange yogurt and a spoon.

Jack looked at Shitty and began to tear up. By the time Shitty sat next to him and had his arms around him, Jack was a sobbing mess. Once again, he thanked the heavens for giving him such amazing friends.

**+++**

Jack managed to pull himself together enough to venture outside the apartment. He wasn’t sure where he was going but before he knew what he had done, he found himself stepping off a bus in front of The Met, his legs working on muscle memory. 

He pushed through the Great Hall, and immediately made a left as he walked through the prehistoric and early Greek galleries he had explored so many times with Eric.

He saw a marble sarcophagus and approached it slowly. His eyes grew wide as he examined it closely, and looked over to the plaque on the wall with the description.

“ _The Contest Between the Muses and the Sirens_. 3rd quarter of 3rd century A.D…”

Jack blinked a few times, and bitterly laughed at the ridiculousness of his situation. He ran his fingers through his hair and huffed out an enormous sigh.

“Of course,” he muttered to himself. “Of fucking course.”

Jack pulled out his phone and dialed.

“Papa? Can I come home?”

**+++**

The flight into Trudeau International went off without a hitch. As Jack walked past the Virgin bookstore, he saw an enormous display of his book in the window. Even in his hometown, _Bêtes de la Nuit_ was a hit. He pulled his duffle bag closer to his shoulder.

He sat quietly during the cab ride to his parents’ home. Alicia was in Toronto for a few days finishing some editing work, so it was just Bob and Jack.

“Text me when you leave the airport and I’ll have dinner ready for you,” Bob had said when Jack called to let him know he’d boarded the plane.

When Jack knocked on the front door, Bob opened with a huge smile on his face. He took one look at his son, lost the smile and pulled Jack into a giant bear hug.

After dinner, Bob and Jack sat in the living room. Bob lit the fireplace, handed Jack a glass of Malbec, and sank into the lush sofa next to his son.

« So… are you finally going tell me what’s going on, son? »

Jack gazed forlornly at the flames, momentarily lost in them.

“Jack?”

“I was seeing someone, fell in love and they left. End of story,” Jack spat out.

“Oh, Jack. I’m sorry. That sucks big time, son.”

Jack smiled a little. For all his eloquence, sometimes Pulitzer Winner Bob Zimmermann just really spoke the plain truth.

“Who were they?” Bob asked.

“Eric. His name is Eric. _Was_ Eric? I don’t know.” Jack shrugged helplessly.

“You don’t know?” 

“If… if I tell you, you’re not going to believe me,” Jack said, looking into his wine glass.

“Try me. You’d be surprised how much I am willing to suspend my disbelief,” Bob said and took a tiny sip of wine.

“You’re going to think I’m bonkers. It just doesn’t make sense, but it happened,” Jack said and looked up at his father, face shrouded in sadness.

Bob smiled at Jack encouragingly.

“Eric is a muse.” 

Bob’s eyes grew wide. He swallowed the rest of his wine in one giant gulp and placed the glass on the coffee table. “He’s a what, now?”

“He’s a muse. You know, like from the Greek gods.”

“Yes, I’m aware of what a muse is,” Bob said as he frowned.

“You think I’m losing my mind, don’t you?” Jack muttered.

Bob shook his head and patted Jack gently on the knee. “Where art thou, muse, that thou forget’st so long to speak of that which gives thee all thy might?”

“Shakespeare?”

“Yep,” Bob said, then looked right at Jack and added, “Your mother knew him well.”

**_Toronto, 1982_ **

Bobby yanked out the sheet of paper from his IBM typewriter and angrily crumpled it up. He threw it toward his hockey goal wastebasket in the corner of his room.

“This is the biggest bunch of malarkey that ever bullshitted,” Bobby said as he slammed his fists on the desk.

Several books from the bookshelf overhead tipped over and pelted him on the head.

“ _Osti crisse de tabarnak_!” he swore as he covered his head for protection. He groaned and picked up the copy of Truman Capote’s _The Muses are Heard_ that sat lodged on his type bars. 

“Ha! That’s what I need. For the goddamn muses to hear me.”

Bobby grabbed his jacket and left his apartment to head out to Grossman’s for a drink. He had foolishly thought some time in Toronto, away from Montreal, would fuel his creative fires, so, after he graduated from McGill, he'd moved out there. But now, all he had to show for it was a dumpy apartment with a roommate he couldn’t stand, and a part-time job at Glad Day Bookshop. 

As he made his way to Grossman’s, he looked up and noticed that the moon seemed to glow. Bobby wasn’t a big moon worshipper, but something about this particular night made him take notice.

“A little help would be appreciated,” he called out. “Work some of your razzle-dazzle on me!”

Bobby laughed at his own foolishness and walked into the inviting noise of Grossman’s.

He sat at the bar and the bartender instantly handed him a drink.

“You’re here early,” he said with a smirk. “Must not be going real well.”

Bobby ruefully took a sip. “Thanks, Mike. Thanks a lot. Next time, why don’t you just punch me in the stomach while you’re at it. You know, for the full effect.”

“That bad, huh?” Mike asked.

“Let me put it this way. I’m starting to empathize with Jack Nicholson’s character in _The Shining_.”

Bobby felt a presence next to him and, when he turned, he saw the honest-to-god most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his entire life. She looked back at him with raised eyebrows.

“You know, except for the murderous ways…” he added sheepishly.

“Well that’s good to know,” she said and waved Mike over. “Can I have a Singapore sling?”

“Mike, her drink is on me,” Bobby interjected.

“You’re broke,” Mike said flatly. 

The woman laughed. “I’m perfectly capable of paying for my own drink,” she said with a smile.

Bobby’s stomach did a tiny flip as he drank in that smile.

“In fact, I’ll pay for his, too,” she told Mike.

“Good! Bobby here’s a struggling writer. He could use all the charity he can get,” Mike said as he walked off to get the woman’s drink.

“You’re a writer?”

Bobby frowned. “He wasn’t kidding about the struggling part.”

“Are you a writer or not?” she asked.

“Yeah… I guess I am. Yeah.”

“Then it doesn’t matter if you struggle. You’re still working and trying to create,” she said matter-of-factly.

“I’m Bobby—uh, Robert. Bob?” he said as he offered his hand.

The woman laughed again. “Not sure, are you?”

“I promise you, I’m not usually this big of a putz. I’ve even been called a bad boy,” Bobby said with a dumb grin.

She laughed and shook her head. “Oh boy. Anyway, nice you meet you, Robobberty. I’m Alicia.”

**+**

“Listen, all I’m saying is that you can’t discount the influence of the _Wasteland_ ,” Bobby said loudly. “You just can’t.”

Alicia rolled her eyes and pretended to fall asleep. “Pedantic and long-winded. Eliot’s too in love with his own supposed wit.”

Bobby clutched at his chest in mock horror as Alicia laughed.

They stayed at Grossman’s for hours, drinking, laughing and playing pool. After midnight, Bobby invited Alicia to a greasy spoon just down the street for some food.

“I prefer Prufrock, anyway,” Alicia said with wink, and cut into her porkchop.

Bobby dropped his fork. “What? Oh, come on! You can’t talk about _Wasteland_ that way and then say you like _Prufrock_? How do you justify that?”

Alicia busied herself with her chop and took a bite. Bobby studied her with glee. “Tough question?” 

“No... tough pork chop!”

Bobby laughed and shyly looked at Alicia. “You know, I think you are absolutely, one hundred percent perfect, and I adore everything about you.”

Alicia took a drink of her soda and smiled. “Right back at you, handsome.”

**+**

Alicia and Bobby saw each other almost every day. After a couple weeks, Bobby felt like they were just meant to be. They could talk about literature and writing for hours, and spend just as long in bed.

Bobby adored Alicia’s wit and her dry sense of humor. She suffered no fools and took no shit from anyone. She wrote poetry that blew Bobby’s mind. And his writing? Well, his own writing just seemed to flourish. He had this incredible burst of creative energy he had never experienced before. It amazed him, and he’d never been happier.

Soon, Alicia and Bobby moved in together. They had an apartment on the second floor of an old Victorian on Spadina. And one morning, as he woke up and saw Alicia still asleep in his arms, her hair tangled across her face and his pillow, he knew there was no other way he’d want to ever live. 

“Ali?” Bobby nudged her gently, called her again, and hoped he wouldn’t lose his nerve.

“Hmm?” she said, eyes still closed.

“Ali, wake up.”

“In a bit...”

“Ali, marry me.”

Alicia instantly opened her eyes and looked at Bobby. “Marry you?”

“That’s not the exact reaction I was looking for, but yeah. Marry me.”

Alicia sat up and brought her knees to her chest. She rocked gently back and forth, and said, “Fine. But there’s something you should know.”

“Again, not the reaction I was looking for.”

“Have I ever lied to you, Bobby?”

Bobby frowned. “Never.”

“So believe that what I’m about to say is the truth and you’re not imagining things.”

As soon as Bobby nodded, and room filled with a brilliant, blinding light. He jerked back, shielding his eyes. “What’s happening?!” he gasped.

“I am Calliope. The muse of poetry…”

**+++**

“So you see, Jack. I have some experience with a muse as well. Your mother gave up being Calliope, so she could just be Alicia Zimmermann. We fell in love, and she never regretted leaving her immortal life to be with me.”

Jack stared at his father with wonder. How could this possibly be?

“And I thank the gods each and every single day,” Bob added with a wink.

Jack slept fretfully that night. He had so many questions, and Bob felt that the answers should come from Alicia. She would be back home in a few days, and until then Jack enjoyed his time with his father. Yet, whenever he thought he might be feeling like his old self again, his traitorous thoughts led him back to Eric.

A few days later, Jack was sitting in the study, rereading one of his father’s novels, when he felt a soft touch on his shoulder. He smiled instantly and turned around.

“Maman,” he said as she offered her arms.

“Sweetheart. My sweetheart.” Alicia sat next to Jack and he melted into her.

That afternoon, Jack told his mother everything.

“Clio. I should have known,” she said with exasperation.

“What do you mean?” Jack asked.

“Well, he was always one to march to beat of his own drum. I’m not surprised he let his guard down and fell in love.”

“You did the same thing,” Jack pointed out.

Alicia muttered, “Yes, well…”

“So… are you actually siblings?” Jack frowned. “Is he related to me, because that—”

Alicia held her hand up. “Jack, sweetheart, you can just stop right there. No, you are not related to Eric. We are sisters in name, in spirit. Good lord, there’s just a whole lot of symbolism and nonsense going on up there. Can’t say that I miss it one bit… So no, you don’t have to worry you’re in some weird faux-Oedipal situation.”

“Thank god,” Jack said. “But, how is Eric your sister if he’s… a brother?”

“Again, in name. We choose to be whatever we want to be, what we feel, regardless of what Zeus or Apollo think. Ugh, Zeus! What a fucking wanker.”

Jack smirked. He had never heard his mother swear before. He then thought of Eric and his mother together, an eternity ago, in wherever the hell they lived. Jack felt his heart clench.

“I’m in love with him, Maman.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know, Jack. Maybe to Olympus, maybe to help someone else? Who can say? But if he let you go and chose another over you, that boy is a fool. And I’m so angry at him for leaving you like this.”

“Do you ever regret leaving?” Jack asked.

“I have your father and I have you. What more could I possibly want?”

While it made Jack love his mother more than ever, her response broke his heart again. Any part that had been on the mend was now in ruins once more. 

Clearly, Eric didn’t want him. And that was the end of that.

**+++**

Jack glanced at the line stretching out across the bookstore. “Whom should I make it out to?” he asked the next person in line who approached with a copy of _Beasts of the Night_.

“To Rose, please. Mr. la Glace, I just loved your book so much. Even though it was about the war, the love stories really spoke to me. It was just so touching and universal. Thank you for writing it.”

“You’re welcome,” Jack replied.

The last book signing of the tour went by quickly, and now all Jack had to do was read a chapter and answer a couple questions. Then he could put this entire book behind him. 

Jack had finally given in and agreed to a six-city book tour on the condition that Shitty accompany him. Falconer Press sent him to Portland, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Austin, Chicago, and finally New York. Each city seemed like an eternal torture to Jack, and even though the audiences were excited and mostly kind, Jack wanted it to be over as soon as possible.

During the Q & A portion in New York, Jack answered questions stiffly and repeatedly glanced at the clock. Ten more minutes. Someone in the crowd raised their hand, and Jack pointed at them.

“Who is E?” the woman asked.

Jack stilled. “What?”

“E. You dedicated the book to them.”

Shitty sat up. “Can we have another question, please?”

Jack had written the dedication while he and Eric were still together, and had forgotten all about it. That one minor detail had slipped past everyone: Lardo, Shitty, George… and Jack hadn’t once picked up the book since it was published. It was too painful a reminder of his time in love.

Jack shook his head. “SB, it’s okay.” He turned to the woman. “E was a friend of mine who helped me when I had writer’s block. So I dedicated the book to him as a thank you.”

“It’s a very personal dedication,” she said bluntly. 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Shitty called out as everyone in the audience glared at her.

An awkward silence washed over the room. Someone else finally raised their hand.

“Yes?” Jack asked.

“Have you planned what your next book will be about?” a man asked.

Jack stood there and looked over the audience. He was silent for what seemed like an eternity until he cleared his throat and finally spoke. “There won’t be another book,” he said, and walked away from the podium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I really liked that flashback. Just a young Bob and Alicia living their best lives. Also, Eric--I think you're in trouble, dude. You pissed off Alicia. D:
> 
> Marble sarcophagus: [The Contest Between the Muses and the Sirens](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/248205).


	8. The Siren's Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack travels the world to find peace. What else will he find out there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, let's do this. Just this chapter and then the epilogue. And I just really wanna give Jack a big hug during all of this chapter. Thanks again for all of your comments and kudos. <3

“Always be a poet, even in prose.” - Charles Baudelaire

**+++**

_**One year later**_

_Today I walked through the narrow lanes of Chandni Chowk, and tomorrow I’ll visit Humayun’s Tomb. I still miss the serene quiet of Kashmir but everything I’ve seen is beautiful. Miss you both. Kiss Glo for me._

During his six weeks in India, Jack had been ping-ponging his way through the country as he jumped from place to place. He’d kept in touch with Lardo more than anyone else. She continued to offer Jack her quiet support, which he appreciated so much. She ribbed him about his travel choices, asked if he needed anything, and constantly told him that her favorite thing was to scroll through the photos he sent her. 

“They’re gorgeous, Jack,” she wrote. “I hope the calm I see in them is a reflection of how you are starting to feel, dude.”

After the last stop of his book tour for _Beasts of the Night_ , the literary world got wind of Jack’s proclamation. It had been on the popular blogs and book sites the following day. This announcement was news to everyone—including Jack himself. So Jack did the only sensible thing he could think of. He packed his bag and left.

Jack wasn’t sure exactly what the point of his travels would be. All he knew was that he wanted to see the world. And maybe that was enough. 

So Jack went on a trip not knowing exactly where he’d go or when he’d be back. He decided he’d let each day grow organically. Shitty and Lardo took in Glorieux and said their tearful goodbyes as Jack took off for his first stop: Chiapas. 

He spent two weeks in San Cristóbal and practiced his rusty Spanish (which had more French peppered in than he cared to admit). He bought amber jewelry for his mother and art for Lardo and shipped it home. He fell in love with the city's narrow cobblestone streets and neighborhoods. He drank so much coffee and read from Eric’s Baudelaire book, which he kept in his back pocket. 

After Chiapas, he continued farther south and fulfilled a childhood dream of visiting Machu Picchu in Peru. There, he marveled at the ruins and was thankful that nothing reminded him of Eric. After some time in Cusco, Jack headed to France. 

In Normandy, he revisited many locations he had written about in his first book. He stood on the Pointe Du Hoc overlooking the choppy waters, picturing his characters coming to life then and there. Afterward, he visited the tiny village of Sainte-Mère-Église and ate jambon beurre every day.

After France, he went to Madrid, Morocco, Cairo, and finally India. His parents, in particular, were supportive of his journey and told him unequivocally that he could come home to Montreal anytime he wanted to. 

Prior to Delhi, Jack had spent two weeks in Varanasi where he visited ancient temples and holy Ghats. The crowds of people offered their prayers and their hearts. Jack walked near the river Ganga, but dared not step in its holy waters. There were some transgressions he preferred to keep and not be absolved from.

Later that night in his modest hotel room, he did something he had not done since he was a child. He wrote a poem.

> It is in the early mornings when he awakens, before the sun even thinks of coming out, that he turns on his side to watch his lover sleep.
> 
> Curls, eyes, lips, chest…
> 
> His lover’s rising and lowering breath, a metronome keeping his heart in step within the quiet of their bedroom.
> 
> It is in these moments,  
>  these very still moments,  
>  he whispers to his lover (who is none the wiser) “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you”;  
>  a mantra that both fills him with adoration and threatens to destroy all that he is.
> 
> Yama, Shiva, Freyja, Anhur -- please take pity.
> 
> But if that destruction were to come, he thinks there are worse ways to go.
> 
> _I love you_  
>  _I love you_  
>  _I love you_  
>  _I love you_
> 
> A cat at the foot of the bed is the only witness to this quiet confession.

Jack closed his Moleskine and watched the sun set heavily just outside his window. He drank his tea and let the dwindling light slowly bathe him.

**+++**

Jack was in London when he saw a British Airways ad in the Chancery Lane Station as he exited the Tube. _Answer the Siren’s Call and Visit Glistening Greece._ Jack examined the billboard for a moment and wondered if it was time. 

He had been writing poetry for the last three months and in all his writing life, he had never felt such freedom. Writing poetry was like finding an entire world hidden in a few clusters of words. The economy of the word exchange fascinated him; it drew him in. The universe in a handful of dust. Jack smiled. His parents would have a conniption over his mix of T.S. Eliot metaphors. 

Jack found that poetry had given him strength—a certain resolve he had never felt before. It made him feel grounded and sure. So here as a fledgling poet in the middle of his own Renaissance, Jack found Greece calling him with his own personal siren song. And when his plane touched down at Eleftherios Venizelos International Airport, he wasn’t as surprised as he thought he would be.

 **+++**

The warm water lapped at his feet as Jack closed his eyes and inhaled the salty, sticky air. Jack ran his fingers through his wavy hair which was longer now than ever before. The Elafonissi beach was one of the most beautiful Jack had ever seen, and part of him wondered if it was because everything around him reminded him of Eric and his mother. 

Jack had taken a local bus to Elafonissi and traveled through the Gorge of Topolia and several mountain towns. He walked along the beachy peninsula, picking up broken shells and small pebbles until very late at night. He stayed at a small cottage near the village of Anidri where he wrote poetry, delighted in everything he ate, and slept with the windows open.

And when he slept, his traitorous heart gave him dreams of golden hair and honeyed laughter.

> **Nightswimming**
> 
> When one is floating in the dark  
>  And all is still --  except  
>            for the sound of your heartbeat  
>            Thrumming       in       your       head
> 
> And the stars above seem to shine  
>  For you and him alone  
>  The waves will gently lap in your ear  
>  And lovingly whisper his name

**+++**

When Jack was a child, he went through a Greek god phase, like most children do—without realizing he had his own deity who tucked him into bed each night. He knew all about them and could tell you which goddess embodied love, which god loved war, and everything in between. He knew tidbits about them all.

Just north of the Gulf of Corinth, lives a mountain that towers mightily above Delphi. Some say this mountain is sacred to Apollo, Dionysus, and the Muses. In fact, it is said to be the Muses' home. And it is this mountain, Mount Parnassus, which also houses a spring whose sacred waters are said to be a particular favorite of the muse Clio. Jack recalled this from his childhood readings.

And so, Jack climbed Parnassus and finally found the spring, concealed between two high rocks. He sat on the ground, slightly out of breath and full of contentment. Here, Jack could feel Eric everywhere, even if Eric had abandoned him long ago.

Jack closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the spring as it gently lulled him. In the privacy of his own heart, he thought of Eric. The smell of Eric, the taste of Eric, the sound of his voice, the feel of his body pressed close to Jack’s.

The wind blew and Jack happily let it wash over him...

“Hello, Jack.”

Jack opened his eyes and turned slowly. Standing there, just a few feet away was Eric, as achingly beautiful as Jack remembered. 

“Eric.” 

Jack had hoped that if he ever ran into Eric again, he’d be stronger. He’d tell Eric he was fine now, and that he appreciated their time together; that he had grown and understood that Eric couldn’t be his. But now, with Eric in front of him, Jack was afraid. He was afraid of giving himself easily to Eric and having his heart broken yet again.

“Jack,” Eric said softly. 

The two looked at one another and did not move.

“I thought about you constantly,” Eric finally continued as he began to walk the rocky path toward Jack, and hesitated.

Jack remained silent. The mountain air whipped Eric’s sweater around, and he brushed his hair off his face.

“The… the very thought of you is what kept me going,” Eric said. 

Jack had a million questions, but in the end simply asked, “Why did you leave?” 

Eric took a step closer and bit his lower lip, as if he were afraid to speak. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I’m so sorry.”

Jack stood up and moved closer toward Eric. “I loved you.”

“I know, and I was afraid,” Eric said quietly. He looked up to meet Jack’s gaze and said, “I was afraid, but I haven’t stopped thinking about you once. Not even once. In all the time I’d been helping people, no one ever really got to know me. Me. But you did.”

Eric paused, and the two studied one another with caution and longing. 

Eric broke the connection and looked toward the spring. His eyes fluttered shut and he exhaled. “And I couldn’t believe it. I… it was too much. So much. I was scared, and it was all so new to me, you know?”

“It was new for me, too, Eric. Just because you’ve lived longer didn’t make my feelings less valid, or me less afraid.”

By then, the tears flowed freely from Eric’s eyes. He took another step closer to Jack.

“Part of me was afraid that maybe you just loved me for what I could offer you—the help I could give you with your work… Or I thought maybe you didn’t love me the way I loved you, as much as I loved you. So I ran away. And, I’m sorry.”

Jack looked at Eric as he wrung his hands together. How small he looked. Tiny, really. As if Jack were the one who had all the power; the one who could break him into a million pieces.

“Eric, I didn’t love you for what you could do for me. I loved you for who you are.” Jack paused and continued, “How you sing while you’re baking and don’t even notice you’re doing it; your easy gentleness with Glo. The way you tilt your head when you’re lost examining a sculpture; the ridiculous way you take your coffee… just _everything_.”

Eric’s lip began to quiver as Jack continued.

“And above all, how you’re the most caring, creative, brilliant creature I’ve ever met. I loved you for you. On top of all that, you made me feel safe, happy—as if I wasn’t broken in some way. I’m so sorry I didn’t make that clearer,” Jack replied and closed the distance between them. He could practically hear Eric’s heartbeat rabbiting in his chest.

Eric opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it. 

“You know, for being so old and supposedly wise, you really are an idiot,” Jack said softly.

“I am,” Eric said. “I really am. I’m sorry. I was so stupid. I’m so sorry.”

Jack reached out and cupped Eric’s face as the tears rolled down, tears as salty as the waters of Elafonissi, as holy as the river Ganga.

“I know it’s probably too late, but I just wanted to see you again,” Eric said as his voice trembled, “and tell you I love you and that I’ll love you forever.” 

“Or…” Jack hesitated.

“Or?”

“Or you can be with me, and love me forever?”

Eric closed his eyes and nodded, as the tears continued to flow. “Yes, forever! Please,” he cried and threw his arms around Jack.

**+++**

They spent the night in Athens and Jack could not get enough of Eric. Eric’s lips, his tongue, his skin, his taste—he fed on all of him. And as Eric rocked gently into Jack, Jack cried out, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” as he came. The two stilled together, breath to breath, heart to heart.

They remained in bed, lost in one another, as Eric told Jack everything about his life—his long, long life and all the things he had done while they were apart. 

“Everything I did before I met you felt worthwhile and it felt good… but everything I did with you felt real. It felt true. I think you are absolutely, one hundred percent perfect, and I adore everything about you,” Eric said with a sigh so gentle, Jack felt as though his heart might burst.

They spent a few days exploring the ruins in Athens, and Jack was enthralled and secretly delighted knowing that the tour Eric gave him was unlike any tour anyone else received. Eric brought Jack's childhood myths to life with first-hand accounts of wars, broken hearts, petty jokes and grievances—usually in the name of love. 

They moved on to the beach of Vouliagmeni, just south of Athens, where they rented a boat. Eric spent hours on the boat’s deck, drinking in the sun and reading books while Jack swam. They ate at the village tavernas, always touching, never more than an arm’s length apart.

At dusk they walked along the beach and talked. They talked about any and everything: Eric’s past, his dreams, Jack’s trip and everything he'd seen and learned. They talked about Jack’s childhood and, eventually, about Jack’s mother.

“I always looked up to Calliope,” Eric said as he sat on a large rock and dipped his foot into the waters. “She was my favorite. The most level-headed of everyone there, really.”

“She doesn’t beat around the bush, that’s for sure,” Jack said with a laugh. He then paused and ruefully added, “And my entire life, I had no idea who she really was.”

“You knew she was your mother and that she loved you. Isn’t that all you needed, really?” 

“I suppose you’re right.”

Eric laughed suddenly, and could not stop. Jack looked on with amusement and waited until Eric’s laughter finally died down.

“What is it?” Jack asked.

“Lord, there must be something about those Zimmermann men, I tell you what,” Eric said with a teasing grin.

They also talked about about Jack’s poetry and the direction his new work had taken. 

“You did that all by yourself, Jack. I had nothing to do with it. Just you and your talent. And Jack, the poetry—it’s simply beautiful,” Eric said, misty-eyed as he read through Jack’s notebook.

Jack smiled proudly. He knew Shitty would support him with whatever new career decisions he made, but it felt damn good to earn Eric's approval.

Jack and Eric spent their nights discovering one another again and again, neither tiring of the other—everything new and wondrous each time. Nothing was more beautiful to Jack than the look on Eric’s face the instant he lost himself. Jack would never tire of seeing that or being the cause of it.

One evening, Jack woke to find Eric naked by the window as he looked out toward the moon. The gauzy curtains billowed around his body. Jack rose from the bed, walked toward Eric, and wrapped his arms around him from behind. 

“What are you thinking?” Jack asked.

“I was praying to Aphrodite of all people,” Eric said with a rueful laugh.

“Oh?” Jack pressed a kiss to Eric’s temple.

“Yeah, we’re not exactly on best terms, the two of us. Ever since the whole Adonis debacle, our relationship has been strained to say the least. But I’m sure she’ll get a kick out of me asking for her help.”

“What do you need help with?” Jack asked.

“Saying goodbye to all of them... and my immortal life. I won’t miss it, honest, I won’t. I love my life here and the possibilities,” Eric said as he turned to face Jack. “I’m mostly afraid I’ll mess things up with you again. I asked her to guide me in my love. I asked for her blessing, and all I want is your love.”

It was startling to Jack how easily their future looked comfortable and secure once again. As if their time apart never happened.

Jack bent down to kiss Eric. “You have it.”


	9. Epilogue: Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And what happened after? Their happily ever after, of course.

"Sing, Clio, giver of sweetness." - Bacchylides

**+++**

Jack sat at his desk and looked at the box the messenger had just dropped off. Packing peanuts poured out of the sides as Jack reached in. He pulled out a copy of his newest book, a collection of poetry called _Variations on Water_.

While Falconer Press had been surprised by the change in genre, any doubts were instantly diminished when George read the manuscript and passed it onto the poetry division of the publishing house with tears in her eyes. 

“Can you say Pulitzer?” George had said as she threw her arms around Jack.

 **Shitty** : _Did you get it? I have a confirmed delivery, Jackooooo._

 **Jack** : _Yeah, I got it. =)_

 **Shitty** : _Holy fucking father of shit. Is that an actual emoticon?_

Jack laughed and shook his head.

 **Jack** : _Shut up! Okay, so an hour? Will that work? I’m flexible._

 **Shitty** : _Roger that, brah! See you at Troy’s in 60. Give your boy a big ol’ kiss for me and tell him Lardo sent along the envelope. It’s in the box. See you!_

“Envelope?” Jack frowned and dug around the box and found it. It was addressed to Eric. 

Eric sang from the kitchen, “You go to my head... You linger like a haunting refrain, and I find you spinning ’round in my brain like the bubbles in a glass of champagne…”

Jack crossed the room, envelope in hand. He paused at the door frame and watched as Eric danced with Glorieux in his arms. He hummed and spun slowly to the music. 

“You go to my heaaaad…” Eric sang and booped Glo’s nose. 

Jack smiled and watched Eric with marvel. There had been an adjustment for Eric in his new life. Luckily, he had Alicia to help him out. Their reunion had been a bit tense but knowing they both adored Jack helped smooth things over.

"You were always such a little shit and you just had to come along and cause havoc, didn't you?" Alicia finally teased one day.

After several apologies and long conversations, Alicia forgave Eric. Jack was quick to point out that he had forgiven Eric, so Alicia was in no position to hold a grudge. Soon enough, Alicia and Eric were as close as they had been centuries ago. 

Eric’s new job at The Met was also a source of joy for him and pride for Jack. With a little muse magic, Eric had produced some college transcripts and an impressive résumé. In no time, he was working at The Met as a very well respected curator of Greek and Roman art. 

“Hey, sweetpea,” Eric said as he shook Glo’s paw to wave at Jack. “Are you ready?”

Jack came over and kissed Eric gently. “Yep, and Shitty sent the advanced copy of the book.”

“Oh! Can I see?” Eric asked as he put Glo down and ran toward the study. 

Eric took the book from Jack’s desk and admired it. “ _Variations on Water_ by Jack L. Zimmermann. It’s beautiful! Lardo did such a lovely job with the cover.”

Jack nodded in agreement. “It’s great. Do you want to read the dedication?”

“Can I? Finally?” Eric asked. Jack had kept it hidden from Eric as a surprise until the book was published. Eric opened the book and leafed through a couple pages, and paused at the dedication. “Jack...” Eric said as he put his hand on his cheek.

_To Eric -_  
_My love, my life, my muse._  
_Without each other we are nothing._  
_Together we are everything,_  
_Living through all of time and space._  
_\- Jack_

Eric jumped into Jack’s arms and peppered his face with kisses as Jack smiled. “Jack Laurent Zimmermann, you are the sweetest, handsomest, silliest boy on this planet…”

Jack put Eric down as he grinned, and said, “Lardo sent this for you.” He held out the envelope and handed it to Eric.

“Oh my god! Is this what I think it is?” Eric asked, wide-eyed. He ripped the envelope open and bounced up and down.

“What is it?”

“Yes! Front row tickets to Beyoncé,” he cried excitedly. “It’s so hard to get in touch with her now. I am so excited to see her again after all this time.”

“Again?” Jack asked. “Wait…” he said with eyes wide, “was she a muse?” 

Eric giggled. “Jack, honey, did you honestly think that much talent could come from a mere mortal?”

“I love you,” Jack laughed as he wrapped his arm around Eric.

“And I love you, forever,” Eric said with a bright smile, and hugged Jack tightly as they made their way to brunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it, folks. I really hoped you liked it. This was so much fun to write. Thanks again to my beta, Stultiloquentia! Lots of love to Devereauxs_Disease for moral support, and to Teluete for being a total sweetie pie who is talented as hell! 
> 
> Here's Jack's newest book:  
> 
> 
> And thanks to you all for your lovely comments. You all are _my_ muses!
> 
> xo

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the Billie Holiday [song of the same name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9yakzL1Q88c).
> 
> Come and sit on my stoop and have some coffee [over on Tumblr](http://wrathofthestag.tumblr.com). And say hi to [Teluete](http://teluete.tumblr.com), too. :)
> 
> All _Check, Please!_ characters belong to Ngozi.


End file.
